


A Life Foretold

by Savannah_rea



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bipolar Disorder, BoyxBoy, Coming of Age, Depression, Drug Addiction, Fluff, Gonkillu - Freeform, Graphic Violence, Introspection, Killugon - Freeform, M/M, Modern AU, Musicians, Performing Arts, Physical Abuse, Romance, Savannah Rea, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Smut, Substance Abuse, Suicide Attempt, This book feeds on the small paradises in life, Verbal Abuse, major angst, mature themes, my life story, some characters differences, true story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25003123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savannah_rea/pseuds/Savannah_rea
Summary: A dramatic modern AU of Gonkillu.Killua faces domestic violence, crippling expectations, and worst of all, himself. A story where he awaits stability, never adapting to the grueling inconsistency of his family.But everything changes with Gon. He's met with another challenge he's afraid to approach: intimacy.(My life story in another characters point of view)
Relationships: Gon Freecs & Killua Zoldyck, Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck
Comments: 74
Kudos: 140





	1. It's Only Time

"My name is Killua Zoldyck." I already began to notice hostility. A small audience awaited patiently, seated in a circular formation. "And my father is a substance abuser, but that's far from the only thing he abuses." You can be open, I told myself. Someone needs to know the whole story. Someone else. "It began with the loss of a heartbeat."

That's when the drama began, but my life started much sooner: summer camp freshman year.

It was a boarding camp made to fulfill kids' dreams, but for me, it was slavery, shackles and chains dragging behind my every step. It was a camp that gives opportunities. Opportunities for the future, so childhood meant waiting--waiting for adulthood, and adulthood meant waiting for retirement. I envied those who enjoyed the moment, not a care in the world, just living amongst the flow of life. Grandpa told me those who look ahead are smart. If so, intelligence is a prison.

Another year of summer camp. Another Bore.

I remember so vividly the smell of the forest: wet, clammy. Each leaf clung to my shoes, mud dampened the soles, and my backpack stuck to my skin. Bugs buzzed, some disgusting, some not, and stationary wind kept the weather stagnant. I followed the crowd like livestock, but I never blended in enough.

Each assigned cabin had four beds. The faculty miscalculated when assigning my short-term home, which campers called Base. There were four students and an extra assigned to cabin eight. The extra slept on the couch.

"Only losers are sleeping there, and I'm not a loser." A teen with ruffled brown hair had said.

The others agreed. Everyone simultaneously turned to me, eyes filled with pity, demise, disgust, or annoyance. From that point on, I spent as little time at "base" as possible. Mornings, I explored. Noon, I waited for night, and at night, I bathed under the twinkling night sky alone with my thoughts.

As for socialization, I listened from a distance. It was always the same egotistical talk of young boys: interrupting each other by boasting. That's when I noticed another boy my age. Spiky black hair, eyes a myriad of browns, and happy, a smile always plastered on his face. Counselors loved him, kids admired him, and animals would rub against his sun-kissed legs. I started gravitating towards him like a moth would with light. He always caught my attention as I watched from afar, but getting any closer risked me catching flame.

Not once did I hear his name.

It happened one night when the sun said its goodbyes for the day. I patted along the river's edge in a straight line, heels touching toes and toes touching heels as a small child would do when coming across a sidewalk curb. The wind gusted for night exclusively, sheering the surface of the water, and tugging the short hairs away. I came across the bridge. Campers aren't allowed across the bridge due to the danger of falling from such height, especially with kids jumping off thinking of the water as a cushion. To me, the bridge was the structure between freedom and captivity; life and death. I always paused at the cement line. Sometimes I would place a foot over, testing the waters, but I would retract immediately.

Until the day I had enough. I took off, running against the cement until reaching the peak of the arch. Nothing happened that day, and that's what bothered me. Nothing to look forward to in this dreadful, waiting-on-time life, nothing to go back to, nothing worth the suffering. Nothing. My mind was blank as I slid a leg over the railing. I wanted to jump, end everything on the bridge signifying life and death because neither side was any different for me.

The next leg over the railing.

I wasn't thinking. For the first time, my mind was blank. I gripped both hands behind me, looking down below: darkness like falling into an endless void.

"Don't do it." A familiar voice, timider than usual.

I whipped my head around to find the spiky-haired, brown-eyed boy. He had his hand out, and I never focused on a palm so intently in my entire life. His were scathed, fingers thick, and one tattering scar on his wrist.

"Go away!" I stammered. _No, stay. Help me_.

He didn't falter, scrunching his eyebrows and focusing his shimmering amber gaze on me. If it were any other situation, I would've blushed. He spoke slowly, "It's not a good idea."

"What do you know!" _He knew enough_ , I told myself. The scar was too close to his vital point to be an accident.

He didn't say anything, just pushed his open palm towards me, a small smile curving the corners of his mouth. It's like he was telling me: I'll show you the reason to live. I'll show you that you're important. I'll show you.

So I complied, shakily entwining my fingers with his, skin so warm. And when my feet once again touched the safe ground, I was crushed into a furnace of a chest, his arms wrapping around me, not careful like I might break, not scared as though I would hurt him, but firmly, securely, and for once, I felt safe. "Thank you," I mumbled against his shoulder.

All too soon, he let go. A small smile graced his perfect lips. "See you tomorrow, Killua," before leaving with a wave.

I stood there, gaping like a fish. I wanted to know his name with a gnawing curiosity; the flustered part of me wanted to know how he knew mine. But that would wait until tomorrow.

I didn't get any sleep that night, but not due to fear of what might come through that door next, or because I was afraid to live with whatever life will slap in my face next, but excitement. I was banging my head with a pillow and watching the moon inch _painfully_ slow across the pitch-black sky. Sounds I was usually immune to, crickets, owls, and branches swaying precariously echoed off the wooden walls. It was driving me mad, so I decided to get up. Who needs sleep anyway?

The clubhouse was open twenty-four seven for needs like bathrooms facilities, midnight snacks for starving teenagers, and it was the center of socialization. During hours of dawn, it became a place for me to feel safe and secure on my own. Often in early mornings, I would find myself leaving Base and sauntering on the clubhouse's rocky pathway.

A lone upright Yamaha stationed near the big rectangular windows that would only show the online of forest in the moonlight. I always gravitated towards the piano, though I never understood why. Grandpa would always declare: The Zoldyck Family has a legacy of good ears for music, which I believed, but only half of us enjoyed it. I liked it with zero correlations to the family, and I despised playing for anyone but myself.

It seemed like Grandpa had twice the expectations of me to make up for the failure of my father's generation. Each member graduated with PhDs, many of them either became professors or attended Harvard. And then Grandpa married my grandmother; later came my father when they were eighteen. You would think Darwinism would take some effect, but alas, Dad twisted all sense of logic.

An alcoholic. And later to morph into a twisted drug addict with greed possessing all, but I didn't know that at the time. What I knew is that my dad had a minor problem with his addictive personality, and the good outweighed all. Mom always emphasized the importance of education. She said it was necessary for independence, but until later, I had no idea how important that was.

So I lifted the lid of the piano gingerly, and I played to my heart's content. Chopin, to me, was the language of loneliness, and I understood it fluently from the light press of the sustain pedal to the resonating melody accompanied by the sub-voices of harmony. To this day, I still ponder how I didn't hear the footsteps behind me or the door swaying open in the forceful breeze. But there stood the tawny-eyed boy, leaning against the music rack, so close that all I could smell was the fresh mint of his toothpaste.

"That's beautiful." Even his voice became my new favorite sound.

I was at a loss of words, and it remained that way until he spoke again.

"You should play for others more often. I bet the campers would love it."

I shook my head. _But I'll play for you_.

"Is your hair naturally white?"

"Pretty much," I picked at my bangs.

"It's really pretty."

It was only the second confrontation, and I already labeled him as the most embarrassing person on the planet Earth and possibly beyond. Small conversation continued from there. Or rather, Gon did all the talking by asking questions, and I responded in short, abrupt ways. It was just a habit. When raised by a family where even one sentence is hard to get across, stretched communication becomes a struggle. Then I asked the one question that burned at the back of my mind, "What's your name?"

The boy showed off a toothy grin, "Gon. Gon Freecss!"

~*~

Gon Freecss: optimistic, honest, good-natured, outgoing, and every other label I couldn't begin to comprehend. We became fast friends, both of us sneaking out after dusk and returning to Base at dawn. And I'm glad, so very thankful I took Gon's hand. Maybe it wasn't the bridge that separated life and death, but rather Gon.

The lighthearted campfire games (most of them involved marshmallows) to jumping in the river and splashing each other until one of us nearly passed out. Our relationship was nothing serious, even though deep down, we had many serious things to talk about. But with each other, we enjoyed the carefree nature of freedom, living. I pushed down any feeling that had the potential to destroy it. And for the first time, days passed too quickly, and so many good memories, one after another, caused me to wonder why I haven't died from a chainsaw and awoke to find it was all a dream.

I wanted to cry on the last night of camp. Gon and I set up a campfire near the rippling lake.The stars were as bright as the fluorescent lights seen in professional buildings, as beautiful as a diamond reflecting like mirrors. And Gon. His tan skin accentuated by moonlight, hair as dark as the night sky. We didn't speak much at all that night, and we didn't need to. We were mere children, nothing much to control in our lives, so we learn to enjoy the moment, which is something I discovered alongside Gon.

It was the first night what they discussed was serious.

"I have a parent who's a strict Jehovah Witness." A silence. "I'm not allowed to have friends, but I have one guardian who sneaks around those rules. Maybe...?"

"We can't." I hated to shut down his possibility like I didn't care because I did. God, I cared like my life depended on it.

I saw Gon wince, "I figured," he let out a pained laugh. After a moment passed, he held out a pinky finger, looking at me with those eyes I often got lost in, "Promise you won't forget me?"

"As if I could ever forget you, moron." I playfully nudged him in the side.

_I'll never forget you as long as I live_.

I immediately snapped back into the present when feeling those familiar thick fingers caress the hairline near the back of my neck. Gon was close, very close. My eyes widened to the size of the moon, but I didn't move away. I never wanted to move away. My gaze locked with his, never averting as I watched him slowly close the distance, eyelids falling halfway, minty breath now closer than ever.

I melted when our lips touched. And God, to be able to feel Gon's smile, I tried desperately not to make a high pitched noise that would cause separation because I didn't want to ever separate. I wanted, _needed_ to pull closer. Close enough until I could feel his heartbeat on my chest, close enough so Gon's hair would tickle at sensitive places behind my ear; close enough so I wouldn't ever have to let go of Gon.

It took a good minute before a non-awkward rhythm took place. Gon began moving his chapped lips as I responded fervently, my hands leaving my side and allowing them to crawl up brawny arms to his compact shoulders, and finally, reaching his neck where my arms fit so perfectly like the last puzzle piece.

I shuddered, and that ripped a groan out of the other. This was escalating too quickly. If we went any further, I don't think I could live with separating from Gon, the pain too excruciating. I wanted to block out my thoughts, especially when a slippery wet tongue pried the seems of my lips.

I pulled away.

The night went like every other would, both acting as though nothing happened, but both him and I, knowing that we had the same feelings. Neither of us talked about what would happen in only a few hours, although I'm sure it underlined his every thought just as it did mine. And when morning came, buses parked near the bridge, we both waited side-by-side when backpacks in hand. My heart stopped as my assigned bus arrived, I wanted to turn to Gon, hug him, kiss him, anything! But I only stared instead.

He slid a piece of paper into my grasp, and there when I saw pain flicker in the pools of his eyes. "Remember that we will always be friends," _I'll never be alone_. "Know that someday, we'll meet again." _That 'someday' when we escape._

It ended where it began.

To this day, I kept the crumpled piece of paper by my nightstand, rereading it every night, the memory of his voice, that I always drifted off to, fading by each moment. It contained a phone number and in sloppy handwriting, the words: it could be months, years, decades even, but it's only time.

Whenever life seemed unbearable: Mom stressed out to death, Father with unpredictable emotions, grandparents doing nothing, me parenting my sister; me a victim to everything. I remembered those words. 'It's only time.' Meaning, our friendship, our feelings, will never dwindle, and that served as a foundation for everything.

But even still, it wasn't only time that stood in the way. I was only a hair away from exceeding rock bottom, and I was naive to it. Often I wished that I could go back in time and warn myself, but then I would think: warning or not, no one can adjust, and no one can adapt. It could happen every day of my life, and my feelings wouldn't become any easier.

"It began with the loss of a heartbeat."


	2. It’s Only a Feeling

July 5th, two days before my birthday, my step-grandmother passed away.  
  
The term step-grandmother didn't fit her because she was so much more. She was an adopted mother to my mom, someone every grandchild would wish for, kind even when it didn't benefit herself, I would even consider her more of a mother to me than anyone, and now she's gone. It was almost as though she was the backbone of the family, kept everyone together and safe. I have yet to find a kinder woman. And she was the last one in the family that deserved to die, but she suffered. Cruel how life decides fate.  
  
I remember the night when my father barged into my room, screaming. Me, barely awoken from slumber, glanced at my clock to find it was two a.m. But everything in me paused when noticing my father cry. He never cried, and that terrified me. I struggled to find my voice, "What happened?"

I didn't receive an answer, but I jumped in the car anyways, Alluka asleep in my arms. I almost drifted off as we all drove in silence, head nodding, eyelids wanting to glue shut. My parents mumbled in the front seats, but I grew too tired to listen.

Ambulance lights pierced the night sky. The alarm shrieking, parked in front of the driveway I always drew chalk on with Grandma. I didn't wait for permission, jumping out of the car and running into the house. Two men stood side-by-side, frozen at the sight. Grandpa had my lifeless grandma in his arms. Her always-fixed hair draped along her shoulders, eyes closed, and colorless. Tears immediately clouded my vision as Grandpa yelled to the doctors, "You were too late! She's gone! She's gone." 

Just six hours prior, I was waving with a smile as Alluka chased after her car cheering temporary goodbyes. Or, what we thought was temporary. The death was sudden, too sudden, memories of her alive and well too fresh in my mind to accept reality. But she's gone.

The last thing I remember from that night is crying. Just crying.

Father didn't bother to show up at her funeral. I read a speech, didn't cry for the sake of others, but the dam was near shattered when Grandpa came up to me, puffy eyes and a pale face. "You know, Killua. She loved you the most."

I began to wonder how much sadness a person could take before dying. While death was not my wish, the concept of feeling emotionless was.

You always hear the saying: You don't know what you've got until it's gone. And the realization hit hard, but it hit Father harder. Grandpa stayed locked in his house, and we didn't see him for months. We lost both grandparents The Night No One Speaks Of. 

And...when...

“Killua?" 

I blinked back into awareness. A blonde woman had called my name, blue-ish eyes narrowed, sympathetic. However, the hostility still wafted from bodies everywhere. "Right, sorry," I cleared my throat. "My father began drinking from there." 

He was the hostile drunk, the unapproachable sort. After breakfast, I'd throw away disposable napkins only to open the trashcan and see empty beer bottles, overfilling and spilling; littering and scattering across the floor. Before school, I'd find him passed out on the couch, but he never bothered us because his 'drinking time' was during sleep hours.

Days, months, and it was summer once again—summer going into sophomore year. Mother no longer felt comfortable leaving me with the boarding camp I grew to love. Instead, it was two weeks of rigorous music camp. 

I had a backpack heavy from music weighing down my back as I entered a modern building. I did what I do best: concealing my existence by keeping to myself. I didn't even bother to introduce myself to others, just moped to the nearest practice room, and slammed the door shut. I pulled out the _Prelude and Fugue in B flat major from the well-tempered clavier by J.S. Bach._

Boring. Easy. A chore. Stuck practicing a song you dislike for hours a day, for weeks, or even months.

That's how playing the piano was. While it was a hobby, it became a job to ensure success for financial independence. I didn't ever want to pursue it in college. It worked more as a safety net. I needed to be able to be financially independent and take care of Alluka.

"I won't let you play Chopin. You aren't ready for it," said Ms. Kreuger.

 _I'm not good enough_. It frustrated me to tears. "I practice more than every other kid in this building." My voice began to strain, "I see freshmen play it easily. I'm doing this camp when no one else in this school signed up. I practice mornings, during lunch while everyone else is chatting with friends, and practicing hours when I get home! My academic classes have suffered for this course, sleep now only a luxury, and I don't even know one person in this entire school! What more do I have to sacrifice?!" How could _I improve if you don't let me? And If I don't improve, I'll never be able to get scholarships, my entire high school years put to waste._  
  
"Ask me senior year."

As always, my words fell over deaf ears. Tomorrow was the last day of camp (thank god). I was so ready to go home and throw my sheet music in the trash. Or maybe I wouldn't, because everyone else wouldn't want me to. Maybe I'll station it on the music rack of the piano as a reminder of false hope, and as a reminder that my life isn't about me.

And that's when I ran into a person I was worried I may never see again. The practice room door swung open, and there stood the boy with bronzed skin, shape more compact than last met, and his eyes, god his eyes, a bit different, darker, hotter. I was in complete shock—Gon has a way of doing that.

"Long time no see, Killua," Gon spurred. His voice deepened, a deep rumbled bass rather than the light, innocent, cheerful sound. My face immediately caught fire.

With me still at loss for words (completely given up on articulating a somewhat grammatically correct sentence), I gaped when he walked closer, a stupid thought invaded my mind. _God_ , I just wanted him to pull me into his loving embrace I craved since departure, I wanted his rough lips on mine because they still tingled at the memory, _I wanted him_.   
  
Gon stepped closer and I grew paranoid he could hear my erratic heartbeat. 

"You haven't changed much," he said with a smirk that definitely didn't help my flustered problem. I still tried to adjust to the change of his voice.

"Shut up." He laughed, "Did you grow an entire foot?" I asked with a familiar sensation bubbling in my chest.

"Well," Warmth coursed through my body as Gon leaned against the wall, "I'm six feet tall now." He put a flat palm above my head, "What're you? 5'9?" The smirk. I wanted to both slap it off his face and trace it with the pads of my fingers.

I rolled my eyes, grumbling, "5'7." 

Gon laughed, and I watched with ringing ears. I love that sound, I remember loving it back then as well.

A silence occurred of both of us staring at one another with a small smile plastered on our faces. I thought, _'this fixes everything. This is worth the wait_ ,'

"You're still the most beautiful boy I know." 

Gon's voice did strange things to me. The sweat on my palms, the sudden rush of heat furling in my lower belly, and the wetness forming in my mouth. I looked away, "It's weird to call boys pretty."

And suddenly those words are bouncing off Gon's face. The scent of his breath sent familiar chills down my spine, body shivering, anticipatory. "I don't think so," Gon's voice turned to a hushed whisper, "I missed you."  
  
"I missed you too." I tried to hold eye contact with Gon, my eyes wanting desperately to travel to his lips. I wanted to see if they're still as soft as they look or if they still tasted sweet. His face inched closer, closer. Instinctively, I sucked in a large portion of air.   
The intrusive bell snapped me out of my daze. I immediately retracted from Gon. "I...uh, I'll see you tomorrow." I didn't look him in the eye I a sloppily shoved all the sheet music into my backpack. An arm stopped me, firmer than I recall, "Why didn't you call?"

My heart stopped. Of course Gon would notice my abstinence, he wasn' t that stupid. My eyes locked on the ground, "I've been busy." 

Suddenly Gon's phone rang. The profile picture had a beautiful blonde girl on it, grinning with the prettiest green eyes I've ever seen. The contact name: Retz with various hearts next to her name. It hurt. My heart dropped, body felt cold, and water clouded my vision. The awful mixed feelings of jealousy, hatred, and stinging pain had my fists clench, knuckles popping, "I read your note every day before bed." I looked at him, holding back a wince as I saw the hurt in his eyes, "I waited, and I was happy with that." I lugged my backpack on one shoulder and stood near the exit of the practice room, "But I guess you couldn't wait on me." My voice dripped with mockery, "Then again, It's only time." I kicked the door shut and never looked back.

~*~

When I arrived home, something felt off. I walked with hesistance as I inched to the front door. Suddenly it boomed open, Alluka running into my arms. "Alluka, what happened?!" I asked frantically. 

She was crying.

"Stay here." I ordered, and Alluka nodded with teary eyes. As I ventured deeper into the house, I heard glassware shattering, a woman crying, and fathers voice, furious. I peered around the corner. 

"I won't let you take the kids overseas!" 

"Are you worried I'm going to auction them off or something?! You control nothing, woman!"

I jumped when my mother turned to me with frightened eyes. Suddenly she's running towards me, and I was unsure whether to bolt or stay. She grabbed my wrist, and I'm dragged to her car. Alluka was already in there, hiding and covering her ears.

"Get in the car, Killua!"

I didn't think twice, hopping in the car and rushing to buckle my seat belt. 

Alluka whimpered in the back, "Mommy, what happened?"

"Father and Mommy aren't going to live with eachother for awhile."

Alluka gasped, "You're getting divorced?"  
  
"No, no. Just a temporary separation. Your father is a bit...sick. He'll get better with time."   
  
Time. Waiting. I felt sick. We stayed in a hotel room that night. When Alluka fell asleep, it was just me and Mom. It was a room of melancholy silence. I didn't ask what happened to cause this, and I didn't want to.

~*~ 

It was near the end of the last day of camp. But this time, I wanted it to end. I _really_ wanted it to end. Gon's presence lingered around, making me all the more vulnerable. And I hated feeling vulnerable. Since Grandma's death, Grandpa began acting differently towards me, like I was fragile-- like I was a girl. Father tried 'toughening me up' because I needed to act more 'manly'. I knew he'd kill me If he found out I had a sexual attraction towards men. Even though deep down I knew everyone knew, I was still afraid. If being a girl meant dependence and vulnerability, and being a man meant taking control of the weak, then I hated both. 

Before I left camp for good, I noticed a crumpled piece of paper that someone must of slid under the door. I immediately recognized the sloppy, rough handwriting: _I love you the most._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ThE NeXt chapTer AwAiTS


	3. It's Only My Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good memories vs. the bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT'S RIGHT PEOPLE. I FINALLY UPDATED REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

"Did you live with your father?" The blonde woman asked.

"That is just as complicated as everything else." I was beginning to get frustrated. How hard is it to just listen! That's their job, isn't it?!

Another woman spoke up, reddish hair and chocolatey eyes, "What happened if your parents didn't get divorced?"

I sighed, glancing at the ceiling with a clouded gaze. There were so many memories I never wanted to revisit, and the annoying part is that they'll stay with me for the rest of my life, clinging to me like a parasite.

The collapsing of sanity came in five stages, each stage progressively worse and me discovering the brutality of reality so much so that sleeping became a form of escape because anything was better than actuality.

Mom considered stage one to have begun when father started drinking; I disagree, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

"Killua?" asked Mom. It was our fourth night in a hotel. Alluka made the room a mess by fabricating a pillow empire, but none of us had the heart to get mad.

"Hmm?"

There was a long pause.

"We need someone to check up on your father."

My heart sank, "You mean me."

Another pause, "yes."

I remained staring at the history textbook in my hand, frozen, devastated. I was afraid of the unknown, the oblivion, and finding the answer alone without anyone else's comfort.

The next pause was the longest yet, "For Alluka's sake." I turned to Alluka, who was asleep, cuddling a stuffed animal, mumbling our dog's name. Then I heard Mom choke a sob, "And for mine."

"Okay." It would've been selfish to say no. I didn't know what was going on with Father, and I wanted it to stay that way. Although, the way Mom would stare off into space frequently with a saddened gaze gave away the answer.

I felt bare walking into the house, vulnerable. The halls were dark, and the house was in the messiest state I've ever seen. Some of Alluka's stuffed animals were chewed up, the living room smelled of urine, alcohol, sweat, and beer cans covered every possible surface. I didn't want to wake up Father, who snored on the now-stained couch, so I carefully slinked around the living room.

That's when I noticed our puppy, Sophie, was missing. My heart dropped for what seems like the umpteenth time that day. I called her name frantically, searching under every pillow, and around every corner.

"Shut up!"

I flinched at the harshness present in my dad's voice. "Where's Sophie?!" I yelled across the room, careful to leave out any hint of anger or aggression.

He was out cold.

I clenched my fists until my knuckles were white, red was all I could see, and I felt hot, very hot. Stomping away, I whipped around when hearing a yelp. I stumbled upstairs as fast as my legs could carry, and when I opened the game room, I found seven young-adult males. The room was foggy, smelling of weed, and all of them were passed out except for one, holding tiny Sophie by the tail.

If killing everyone in sight was considered socially appropriate, I definitely would have indulged in the matter. "PUT THE DOG DOWN!!"

The black-haired, scruffy man looked over at me and dropped Sophie with a thud. I ran over, scooping her up in my arms, reassuringly stroking her white, fluffy fur.

The man's voice wielded undertones of aggression, "Who are you?"

I wasn't having any of it. I gave him my coldest of glares, remembering the knife in my pocket concurrently, "Silva's son, motherfucker. Now, I have a better question: who the fuck are you?"

"A friend." He replied cockily.

A fake friend, a user, a _leech_ to the family.

And then last night, Alluka cried from a nightmare of losing Sophie--of losing her best friend. "Get out." It began as a seething whisper.

_Spending night after night in a hotel, afraid of our own home, worried sick about our dog-_

"A pretty boy like you telling us what to do when your drunk father is passed out." The man spurred, walking closer in a provoking manner. "He doesn't care about his family even if he was awake. He only likes the _idea_ of it."

I laughed, not whole-heartedly, not painfully, but with jeering mockery and pure hatred. Suddenly, almost startlingly out of place, I screamed, "Get out!"

Everyone in the room winced.

The bozo's eyes widened upon me taking out my switchblade, "I have no regards for my life, let alone yours," I sauntered closer with a wicked grin, "so instead of being a burden to the rest of society and only existing as a pinnacle of fruitlessness, just get the fuck out."

I watched as they packed their bags and left, and one person mumbling, "What a pathetic kid."

 _Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic_ , and me thinking: _I know I am._

A called out with phony encouragement dripping with each syllable rolling off my tongue, "Go on, be free, live life defying Darwinism with each passing moment!" I kicked the door shut.

Rolling my eyes, I began walking in the direction of my room with a trembling Sophie in my arms, mumbling words of reassurance. Alluka had been crying every night since we left the dog behind because our hotel rooms didn't allow pets. Sophie buried her pointed snout against my chest. "Shh, it's okay. It'll just be you from now on and me."

I stared at the newest piece of crumpled paper stationed on my nightstand. Sighing, I hesitantly began dialing the number.

_And Gon._

"Killua, you called!" He answered almost immediately like he was waiting for me to call the entire time.

Maybe it was because I longed to hear the warmth in Gon's reassuring voice or maybe because I wanted to get all the pain over with; perhaps it was the childish craving of instant gratification, of instant happiness, of Gon. But calling him felt instinctual. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

I inhaled slowly, "Yeah."

Gon soon began frantically rambling, "I haven't changed my-"

"Gon, you don't have to explain." I wanted to forget. It's easier that way.

A pause.

"Yeah." Gon whispered longingly. And all former tension faded away.

He continued rambling, about...life; I mostly listened, and God, I loved it that way. Gon always found even the littlest things in life to be adventurous, exciting, and unforgettable. I smiled and entwined my fingers in Sophie's white fur.

"Killua," No one could ever say my name in more of a soothing sense. I knew I could fall asleep to his voice alone, "I missed you."

Frozen, eyes widening, and butterflies bubbling in my belly. I responded truthfully, "I missed you, too."

"You want to meet at Dunlavy park?"

_The park. Nature. Summercamp. I remember everything._

"Gon," fourteen-year-old-me quirked an eyebrow, "no."

Gon swung down a branch, hanging upside down, our noses _nearly_ touching, "It's just a tree."

I rolled my eyes, "Unlike you," grumbling as a side-note, "and the general population of humanity, I can't walk up trees."

Gon hopped down and ambled closer, _too_ close.

"Gon," I began hesitantly, "what are you doing?"

He snaked around me and put two warm hands on my waist. I shivered when feeling warm breath caressing the hairs on the back of my neck and slivering up my spine. "I'll lift you up on the count of three."

Heat crash-landed on my face, "What?! I'm heavy, you know. Two inches taller, remember?!" I pointedly screeched, but of course, Gon didn't listen.

"One."

"Gon!"

"Don't worry, Killua. I can lift you easily."

"This is embarrassing!"

"Two!" He continued.

"I swear to God-"

"Three!!"

I yelped as Gon pressed his palm against my waist— rough finger pads ghosting over my abdomen as he lifted up. My legs flailed in the air, and I quickly reached for the nearest branch as a frantic cat would do when nearly falling off an unstable surface. Panting, I finally lunged my body over and sat where all the branches of the thick oak tree met. I side-glanced to Gon, who 'walked' up the tree in an instant.

He got close to my face and snickered, "See? It wasn't that hard."

Still regaining breath, I poked him in the, what I expected to be soft but ended up being extremely firm, belly.

He writhed in pain, "Ow, Killua!"

I looked in Gon's sparkling amber irises, "Oh shush. That didn't hurt." I rested my head against the rough bark, letting out a drawn-out sigh, eyelids falling in content.

"Tired?"

I hummed in response.

I heard shuffling noises. I gasped when Gon ever so gently lifted my head, and I didn't bother to protest when he rested it against his warm, firm, and comfortable torso. I whispered because speaking at any higher volume would shatter the fragile moment into pieces, "You don't have to, you know." I nestled my head against the Gon's rough, cotton shirt.

"I want to." I felt the rumble in his words vibrate my cheeks as I pressed closer, trying to physically indulge in affection without a lack of discretion.

Gon spoke again, and I wondered if I was dreaming already by being this close; being this warm; this happy. "Look," he gently patted my head, "you can see the Milkyway." I squirmed a bit. "Killua!" He whined after I didn't respond.

"Okay, okay, I'm looking." I sat up and shifted into his lap, tilting my head to the night sky. Breath caught in my throat. Above me clustered shimmering stars, each one wielding individuality from the rest. And in the background, it mimicked a watercolor painting: ethereal with pinks and purple spiraling with the indigos, dusting the pitch-black sky. Crickets hummed in the forest, owls sung, and the plentiful leaves of the oak tree swayed with distant creeks of the thick, wooden branches: nature's vision— the true essence of life.

I didn't even try to hide a gasp of astonishment.

"One day," The delicacy in Gon's voice arose, "I want to see the Northern Lights. I believe people get distracted with what really matters." I smiled, leaning the back of my head once again onto Gon's chest. He continued, "But I guess that's something everyone has to discover for themselves."

He paused abruptly, and I let out a questioning hum.

"Someday, will you come with me to see the Northern Lights?"

My eyes shot open.

Gon began rambling, "Not if you don't want to, of course. I-uh just thought it-"

_He'd want to spend his dream with me._

"That's a stupid question. Of course, I'd want to come."

_You already fulfilled my dream: a life with you._

Gon let out a giddy cheer; I laughed, thanking the lord that my face was turned the other way so he couldn't see the raging blush when he latched his arms around my sides in a loving embrace.

Silence lingered for a frame of time, but it didn't feel that way. It was as if we were still processing and trying to ingrain our impactful conversation, so we'd never forget.

I guess Gon was the first to decide to break that silence, "Can you sing for me?"

I scoffed, "What type of question is that? It's weird just to ask people to sing."

"I'm not asking ' _people,_ '" He argued defensively, "I'm asking you."

"My voice isn't pretty."

I winced as Gon spoke a little too loudly in my ear, "That's not true! Even if you haven't ever sung for me before, I just know your voice is beautiful. It's clear and harmonious even when speaking normally." He put a finger on his chin to show he was deep in thought, then cue the metaphorical light bulb, "Like a siren!"

"Terrible analogy." I snickered.

"Hmph, you know what I mean. Maybe you won't sing for me now, but I'll keep asking, I promise."

Once again, leaning further into Gon, my eyelids fluttered shut, and a grin tugged at the corners of my lips, "Yeah, okay."

My heart warmed when Gon rested his head on mine, snoring after only a minute. Slowly and gingerly, I traced the scar on his wrist. To think that none of this would be possible without an act of self-harm; self-destruction, which made me think of the saying, ' _You don't understand happiness if you don't understand pain.'_

That was the first, and last night I spent sleeping beside Gon.

I blinked back into the present, "Yeah, I'll ask my mom if that's okay."

"Okay," Gon responded cheerfully, "talk to you later."

I murmured an agreement.

"Bye, Killua."

I smiled, "Bye, Gon."

"Bye." Suddenly his voice has a mechevious undertone. 

I barked out a laugh, "You're just trying to get the last word."

"Okay, bye!"

"Bye!" I simpered and immediately hung up before he could say anything else.

I flopped like a starfish on the bed, Sophie curling up on my stomach. I jolted up when hearing my phone ring with a text message illuminating the home screen:

Just now

**Gon:** _Bye >:p_

_Good God,_ I couldn't help but laugh. Snuggling under the sheets, I began humming the song Gon would always sing subconsciously. Maybe, this meant mending the wounds left behind because Gon always had a way of pushing forward even when at the roughest of times. I once again unlocked my phone, but this time, clicked on my mother's contact. Maybe it is possible to go back in time if only for a moment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balancing hypersomnia, two jobs, piano, and writing is quite difficult. But thank you everyone for your patience, and I hope this chapter was worth the wait! >:3
> 
> Comment your thoughts or feedback <33
> 
> -Savannah Rea


	4. But Is That Enough?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it...gasp...I wrote another chapter. I’m So TIrED rEeEEeEe

Mom didn't allow me to go to the park with Gon. Her excuse being, 'Why a park? That sounds like a hidden plan for abduction or human trafficking.' I rolled my eyes, and what I didn't mention was, 'we're just used to being rich; we've grown accustomed to meeting friends at overpriced restaurants.' But I didn't say that, of course. Mom grew up poor. Even if she momentarily forgot, I'm sure she remembers some semblance of it.

"What?! How am I supposed to see you now?" Gon whined over the phone.

I deflated, cursing at myself for getting my hopes up. _We aren't normal, and we'll never be normal. Just accept it, Killua._

"I have an idea!"

_Of course._

I sighed, "What's your idea?"

"I work at the Museum of Natural Science-"

"Gon," I interrupted him, giddy excitement causing my voice to stupidly squeak, "you're working, a fifteen-year-old, let alone your first job, as a tour guide? That's amazing!"

"So, I finally impressed Killua Zoldyck!" He snickered, "You're not exactly an easy person to impress."

I stuck my tongue out even though I knew he couldn't see it. _You're mistaken. Everything you do, even the way you think, never ceases to amaze me,_ though I kept those thoughts to myself.

"So, will you go on a date with me?"

My heart stopped for a moment, only to start beating rapidly the next. "Yeah," I whispered.

"Yeah," he whispered back.

And then we whispered our goodbyes. I'd never let anyone know it, and I was embarrassed myself for feeling this way—this dependent, but just calling Gon made the entire day brighter as though his eccentric aura seeped through the telephone lines and dispersed into my atmosphere. It's as if the warmth radiating from his body traveled and wrapped its arms around me in a loving embrace--as if Gon was the personification of everything right in the world. And I just knew I would be lost without him. Lost.

Meanwhile, everything was going well on the family's end of things. I even wondered why and began mentally preparing myself for when everything goes haywire. Mom doesn't know what happened the last time I visited the house, and she probably already knew. Dad pretended as though nothing happened, which was typical, so none of us cared.

Their separation was smooth. Mom moved into our house because she primarily took care of us, it made sense capacity wise, and Father found a small but expensive apartment.

It's as though our problems became minor, and it was as easy to brush off as a leaf barely clinging to scraps of clothing. This gave me room to concentrate on only three things that mattered most: Gon, school, and Alluka.

And while I wish I could say time flew until our specified 'date,' which no one knew about, it didn't. I almost enjoyed it more _not_ having hope in seeing Gon because each passing minute was suffocating. Those few days, hours, and minutes that separated the present and Saturday was nothing but, in the way, an obstacle. I knew I would look back and curse at myself for not enjoying this luxury portion of my life.

To which I indeed regretted. But that's a story for later.

However, it wasn't time that was in the way; it was my feelings, my stupid, naive, childish, but motivating _feelings_. It was _that_ to which I feared most. This borderline 'worship' of Gon would only serve as a disaster someday, a disaster for him, a disaster to my family, and a disaster to me. And as much as I wanted to throw everything I had at him, and as much as I didn't want to seem closed-off or uninterested, I approached each word and action with caution to avoid clinginess and my nature akin to codependence.

I guess what I feared is that I would only value or appreciate my life when Gon was in it, which told me what my true colors were: self-destructive.

So after minimal sleep, after spacing out of conversations, and after blanking during piano lessons and class lectures, Saturday finally stumbled around the corner.

I attempted to tame my tangly fluff-as-hair, brushed my teeth twice, made sure not to wear a wrinkled pair of shirts and jeans, and continued fooling around with my appearance until I didn't cringe when glancing at my reflection.

Alluka sat outside the bathroom door with a pouty face and arms crossed, "Why can't I come with you to see your friend?"

_Because it's a date._

"You'll get to meet him soon." I patted her head.

She rolled her eyes, "Mom, it's definitely a date."

I tried incredibly hard to withhold from a flabbergasted expression.

But Mom didn't budge, "No, Alluka, he's going to meet a friend. His name is Gon."

Alluka mumbled with puckered lips.

Mom drove us over to the museum, and I fidgeted with every possible thing that _could_ be fidgeted with: sleeves, collared shirt, strands of hair; it was endless. I couldn't help but think: Should I act normal? Or am I supposed to act 'romantic'? Would this change anything between us, or could we be the same Killua and Gon I miss with every passing minute? And it was these questions that busied my mind until I found myself subconsciously jumping out of the car and following Mom, only to snap right back into reality when seeing Gon nervously pick his nails amid a crowd of people.

He wore his typical forest-green shirt with, surprisingly, a pair of jeans that remained unblemished from holes or stains. His hair stuck out from all directions, and honey-brown eyes instantly sparkled when meeting mine.

Mom quickly waved her goodbyes, and it seemed like the impossible happened: I'm with Gon—alone from overwhelming impediments and free from shackles and chains, free to do as we please; free to once again _live_ with Gon.

"Killua!" He ran up to me. It was almost awkward like we should've hugged but remained too insecure about carrying out the action, which I understood completely.

"Hi, Gon." He didn't even do anything, and a bubbly smile twisted my face. "So, what do you have planned?"

"Um," He scratched his head, "frankly, I didn't think this would work, so I haven't planned anything."

Was I surprised? No.

"I know!" Gon raised a finger pointedly. And if life was a cartoon, and it was possible for lightbulbs to appear whenever a blockhead fabricates a plan, Gon would be a lightbulb factory.

I rolled my eyes and spoke in an all-knowing manner, "What's your plan?"

"Let's play hide-and-go-seek in the energy section!" He bounced up and down, which looked quite awkward, him being six-feet and all.

Nonetheless, it was strangely adorable.

"Yeah, okay." And I found his childish plan relieving. The title 'date' was intimidating because the fear of unwanted change encroached every corner of my thoughts until I loathed for comfort. Thankfully, it was all for phony reasons because Gon will always be Gon, and that's all that mattered.

Gon counted first, going from heel to toe with every consecutive number just as he had back at camp. And one detail that I never forgot is that Gon always tries his best, even if that meant playing hide-and-go-seek as a teenager. At camp, I found him once camouflaged at the top of a pine tree, and I probably never would've found him if it weren't for the yelp he let out when a pine cone fell on his head.

I hid from both Gon and the faculty under a weird mechanical attraction, knowing I would be in serious trouble if caught by the employees. It was under there I discovered that not once that day, not one moment, a grin faded from my face. I've heard people call romantic feelings 'temporary' or 'momentary happiness,' but I knew without a doubt that whenever the term 'happy' came up, I would immediately think of Gon. Without a doubt.

And it was under there I discovered I was hopelessly and helplessly in love with the biggest moron/ genius the world had to offer.

"Found you!" Gon popped out from nowhere like some descendent of Beetlejuice. I bonked my head on the stupid metal thing; Gon rolled on the floor laughing (legitimately _rolled_ ) while I watched with a cocked eyebrow, trying to hold down the similar sensation bubbling in my chest.

"Okay," said Gon, still giggling between syllables, "I know a better place."

When Gon mentioned 'a better place,' I immediately thought of something outdoors or another attraction that had something to do with biology because that's who Gon _is_. But 'a better place' ended up being the most beautiful room I've ever seen. Calming music of a string quartet wafted in the background, the walls painted pitch-black to accentuate interior decor, silver lining crawled up the corners, red carpet gave off an impression of formality as a way of romanticizing visitors, and the dim light reminded me of the time of night when I'd always go out to explore with Gon—the Gem Vault.

In each glass frame, stationed seemingly ethereal gems of all sorts: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, just everything.

I sucked in a breath.

Gon spoke up, "This room is hidden compared to the rest of the museum. I think many people forget it exists, but this is an area for me to decompress."

I meandered around, holding my hands behind my back and peeking at each stone, admiring the different varieties of reflection each one had to offer. To think everything in the world carries individuality, but to think humans are the only animals capable of the reflective memory to even realize it—a blessing but a curse. 

And then I came across my favorite jewel of all: the opal. Gon must've noticed I paused because he suddenly found his way next to me, his breath fogging the glass as he whispered, "this is my favorite, too. This opal wields more color than any other gem. Every visitor quickly glances over it because of an opal's general ranking in rarity. I guess even rocks have stereotypes." He turned to me, "funny, right?"

"It reminds me of you." I immediately started cursing myself out with how cheesy I sounded, but too late now.

"Huh?"

"It brings every color together without a clash. And..." I trailed off when seeing a particular type of smile I've only seen once or twice before: a small curve, completely genuine, and fully content.

"Killua, sing for me?"

"What?" I said off-beat.

Gon inches closer, his head invading the socially constructed space bubble, "Will you sing for me?"

I dipped my head, "Not today."

"But it's been an entire year!" Gon whined.

I laughed despite feeling somewhat disappointed in myself. I'm sure he's disappointed, too. But that was one promise I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep no matter how much effort I put into it. Singing ushered memories that I would now only consider nightmares...just as music later did.

_Sorry, Gon, not today._

Gon stuck a snickers bar in front of my face. My eyes widened, his hazel irises danced in a hypnotic fashion.

_He remembered_.

It was the morning after I first spoke with Gon. I sat on the ledge of the big rectangular windows in the clubhouse and mindlessly stared at the leaves swaying back and forth amongst the wind. The world around me was chaotic—kids jumping over tables and chasing Gon over a snickers bar and screaming with laughter as he would present some acrobatic move to dodge the needy hands.

Suddenly the snickers bar appeared in front of my face, and all the noises went quiet. I glanced up to see Gon, looking down at me with bright eyes and a toothy grin. "I-"

"Do you like chocolate?"

If I weren't caught off guard, I would've responded like: Chocolate is the supreme deity over all life forms. But in actuality, my response was, "uh, yeah." And I timidly (partly prettified from all the watchful eyes of the campers) grabbed the snickers bar and shoved it in my mouth with a crooked smile.

Another kid broke the silence of astonishment, "Wait, why does he get the snickers bar?" Cue the chorus of complaints.

Gon turned back to them and silenced them all, "Maybe you could learn a thing or two from Killua, and you'd find out for yourselves."

Another camper grumbled, "You just gave it to him because you think he's pretty."

"Be quiet, Gaito!" Gon was...embarrassed? 

I simply watched with chocolate smeered on the corners of my mouth; I couldn't help but think: thank you, Gon.

_For everything._

A snapped out of my trance and back into the present, "You remembered."

Gon showed off a victorious grin, "I figured one year wouldn't be long enough to change your sugar diet." Suddenly, sparkles glimmered in his eyes, followed by droplets running down his face. He was crying. I've never seen him cry.

"Gon-"

He swiftly snuffled and wiped his face with his sleeves. "It's nothing."

I didn't push him, knowing Gon is the type of person to open up when he feels comfortable. Though it greatly concerned me, we dropped the topic. Small talk lingered from there, and when we felt caught up in current events, we calmly laid by the outdoor fountain and closed our eyes to the presence of one another and the faint trickling of water with periodic droplets splashing on our cheeks.

The date blasted all faded emotions of camp to life, dispersing into a colorful atmosphere; it renewed happiness; a date meant living with Gon. That delivered the essence of tranquility, which would busy my mind while bored. It provided a reverie to drift off into and meander when I wanted to escape reality. And it ended with a peaceful feeling when Mother came to pick me up. We said goodbye to each other with a wave, but this time, I remained hopeful another opportunity would bring us together.

I never found out why Gon was crying.

~*~

It was that night.

Alone in my room, snuggled under my cozy blankets, and still giddy from earlier that day. I had to resist instantly calling him when I got home, my subconsciousness telling me that only an obsessive freak would do that. I happily sketched on my notebook, which was a hobby I picked up over time.

And then the phone rang.

I answered immediately once seeing the caller ID. "Gon, how are-" I paused promptly after recognizing something was off. Very off. On the other line, I could only hear sniffing and heavy breathing. For a solid minute, none of us spoke.

"Gon?" I asked hesitantly.

Gon somewhat choked a sob that was probably supposed to serve as a response.

My blood ran cold, "What's wrong?"

Another silence—the longest yet.

"I want to kill myself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, thank you so much for reading this far. I can’t say anything I haven’t said before, so all I can do is thank you guys. <33
> 
> Also, tell me what to update next please


	5. A Homeward Bound Dove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can check out any time you like. But you can never leave."
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vcmjDPDOk7c

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter awaits! Some minor warnings: this chapter contains mention of self-harm and the suffering of a developing depression, which can be disturbing to some readers. But please, sit back, relax, and enjoy a chapter that took way too long for me to write.

Change.

One of the most controversial fuels to disagreement known to man--it's the iciest slippery slope and the adhesive in sticky situations. Moderation is key— like summer leaves tinting orange and leisurely preparing for winter. Or, when faced with a dire circumstance that you feel the absolute need to get out of, to _free_ yourself from no matter the sacrifice: when the yearned change is welcome. But like two sides of a magnet, the negative side will always scream for attention because it's always there. Hiding it meant suppression, and that never works. Ever.

Gon got slapped in the face with the negative portion of change. The overwhelming impact of hardships compiled until it shattered the most positive person on earth because that person is human, and I would almost forget that 'minor' detail when it came to Gon. To me, he just seemed like everything right in the world, ethereal. And with him, it was quite easy to forget how difficult the process of living in actuality _is_.

As prior mentioned, the collapse of sanity came in stages. Stage one began when Father began drinking, according to Mom. I disagreed.

Stage One began with Gon's self-harm.

_'I want to kill myself.'_

All hope in me ripped from my heart and resisted nothing as it was pounded into the ground by an ice-cold sentence. And it was that _one sentence_ that sent me into a lifetime of panic. Frantic, but I knew I couldn't let that show in my voice; anger, but that was selfish; sadness, but that would only make Gon feel guilty--the last emotion he needed to be concurrently feeling. So it dawned on me that I am completely helpless-- as useless as a used plastic bag clinging onto a neighboring tree branch and _stuck_ only to serve as a detriment to all surrounding nature. Gon Freecss: the individual I owed everything to for flashing the pain away with his cheerful smile. And me: futile to him when it mattered.

My response was silence.

"Killua?"

"Y-yeah." I cursed at myself for how small my voice sounded.

Resonating through the line, was a broken cry, followed by sobs that anyone would only consider true despair. "I mean nothing to my family." an uptick, "nothing... to _anyone."_

"Gon-"

"And I try and try and try not to care. Then, BOOM: my father is back in my life followed by my two siblings I had no idea about. Gaito, the kid from camp?" Before I could respond, he interrupted again, his voice speeding up in a panicked accelerando, "That's my twin brother. And my mom ran away from everything only to be replaced by my aunt who sacrifices life itself for religion. The only family I have would abandon me if he found out who I honestly am, and" He cut himself off with echoes of tears, "what if it takes years for me to see the person I love most again?"

My heart stopped when I realized he was speaking of me; that _I_ was the person he loved most. Every ounce of feeling in me both sparked to life and crumbled in anguish. And I now understood that I wasn't the only one who feared time, which gave his former note that much more meaning.

I listened to choking hiccups and deep breaths to regain control, and that's all I did: listened, hoping that he would feel better after ranting, and then I could tell him that there was _still_ hope, maybe speak of the northern lights he had always wanted to gaze upon, possibly play Chopin on the piano, or just _anything_ \-- _some little thing_ that was worth seeing, worth _living_.

I found my voice, "I have my entire life planned out, and you better believe you're in it." I added with a smirk, "We should probably start saving to Alaska now before pollution covers the sky."

Gon laughed, sniffles dwindling, "Yeah, will do."

~*~

Summer break came to an end, followed by my sophomore year, and onwards came my second year attending the performing and visual arts high school downtown. I attended this school solely for academic success. The name itself wielded some weird sort of specialty that caused a person's ears to perk when mentioned—I joined because I strived to be one of the 'talented' that got in. But what a joke that was. Whichever direction a student goes, their sense of confidence changes in some sort or another. There are the kids that develop a humongous ego boost, thinking, _if I'm the best here, then I'm the best everywhere,_ and then there are those whose self-esteem peaks at the title of being accepted but crumbles from there.

I was regrettably the latter, but I hoped for change.

I flew up the stairs, threw my bags down in the nearest practice room, and began warming up with contrary motion scales. I wanted to prove to Ms. Krueger, to the others, and myself that I improved over the summer--that I was no longer a burden; that I could be equal in skill. From freshman year of playing _Chopin Nocturne in E flat Major No.2_ to advancing to the _Brahms Rhapsody in g minor_ , I'm just as good as the others now, right?

Wrong.

Instantaneously, I paused when hearing a Chopin etude, Winter Wind, played by a new freshman. He played it flawlessly, fingers flowing fluidly without any indication of cramps, intensity followed with proper voicing and dynamics. _It's okay, it's just one prodigy. There's always one prodigy_. I poked out of the practice room. I could compliment him; maybe if we're friends, I wouldn't be a burden, "That's pretty cool."

The boy shrugged, "Thank you, but it wasn't that hard. What're you playing?"

I plopped down to the neighboring grand and began with the development of my rhapsody. Another girl popped out of the nearest practice room, bright-eyed, "I love that piece! I played it in sixth grade." Her hair bounced as she sat on one of the pianos and played the entire thing. Again: flawlessly.

My heart dropped to my stomach, self-esteem shattered into pieces. _It's no use,_ I said to myself, trying to feign indifference and bite my trembling lip. I could try my hardest, and I'll never measure up. For God's sake! I didn't strive to be the best, I wanted--I just wanted to be _normal_.

_How pathetic._

Ms. Krueger crashed into the room, snapping her fingers to get everyone's attention. "We don't have much time, so we're hosting a mini-performance. Each one of you will play a piece you learned over the summer. It isn't for a grade, but rather for everyone to see how you play."

I didn't want to be here anymore. I clutched my sheet music.

"Killua,"

"Huh?"

"You're up first."

 _Of course. First. They needed to set the standards low_. Nodding, I sauntered over to the piano bench, adjusting the seat and wiping my sweaty hands on my pants. Deep breaths, deep breaths; _deep breathes_. _I improved_ , I attempted the fake 'confidence' optimists always bring up, saying, the outcome will be whatever you believe it to be, though I didn't believe a word of it.

I began, starting too loud, accompaniment drowning the melody, and octaves periodically missed.

Worse than before. Worse than last year. I have to be worth something more than this. That's the reason they accepted me. But that was a mistake. I know I'm decent at _some things_ , so why is it so hard to prove it? Am I just as delusional as everyone else in my family? _Why, why, why?_ It might as well have been a rhetorical question.

Ms. Krueger coughed. I abruptly lifted my hands from the keyboard to stop all sound, "Aren't you participating in the concerto competition this year?" She asked with a cocked eyebrow, unimpressed-- _immensely_ unimpressed.

"Yes, the _Bach concerto in d minor_."

"And I hope that is better than _this_?"

I winced, "I haven't started."

"As expected," she grumbled, "Next!"

'Next'--a dismissive term that portrayed I was nothing but a waste of time and still a mistake. And the piteous part is I agreed. Never averting my gaze from the carpeted ground, I rushed to my seat, furthest from the others, and listened. I listened. _Listened, listened, listened._

_Chopin's Fourth Ballade_

_Chopin's First Ballade_

_Lizst's Hungarian Rhapsody_

_Grieg's Concerto in a minor_

_Chopin's Etude Winter Wind_

_Chopin's Etude Waterfall_

_Bach's Italian Concerto_

And the last freshman bowed at the grand piano, professionally adjusting his seat, and beginning the _Bach concerto in d minor-_ -the piece I failed to learn for Ms. Krueger--playing all thirty pages as perfectly as it could be.

A freshman did it, droplets rolled down my cheeks and spotted on my jeans. A freshman did it, and you couldn't. He played all thirty pages, and you couldn't play one! Night after night, time and time again at the piano, you so blindly thinking you improved, but nothing has changed. Nothing. 'Talented' Yeah right. Ms. Krueger admitted it was a mistake to accept you into this school, and no matter how hard you try, you will forever be a mistake. The only place you serve is a burden.

As soon as the bell rang, I grabbed my bags and bolted out the door, bangs over my eyes to hide the unwelcome tears.

Dad was supposed to pick me up from school, but he never came.

Rain flooded my shoes, harsh droplets blinded me, and damp clothing stuck like glue, revealing every crevice of my torso and becoming transparent by each passing moment. Cars honked their horns, walking pedestrians gave funny looks, and I felt nothing. When I finally reached the entrance of my father's apartment, the door was locked. Screaming to nothing—akin to a desperate wail for some kind of nourishment (despite knowing I would decline if it came my way), I banged my head on the door, "Why-," I choked, "why do I have to be so _useless_?!" I kicked it, hit it, punched it--no avail. My back slid down the door, backpack soaked and phone: broken. Placing my head in my folded arms, frustrated tears blurred my vision but never fell.

It's okay. It's just one bad day, one out of three hundred and sixty-five. I can still...improve. But maybe I didn't want to try my absolute hardest? Maybe, I was afraid, frightened that even then nothing would change. Maybe my subconsciousness yearned to hold onto a fragment of self-esteem and cling to the unknown. Maybe the unknown is better than knowing; _maybe I already knew the answer_.

Someone unlocked the door.

I jolted up.

There stood an unfamiliar old man, huge belly, bald-headed, and a mole the size of Jupiter on the center of his forehead, "Who are you?" He asked.

I responded with hesitance, "Killua Zoldyck."

The old man held the door open, "Oh, you're Silva's son! Here, come in." He said it as if _I_ were the guest.

I slumped in, kicked off my ruined shoes, and threw my backpack against the wall, stomping into the living room, and preparing to give my father a yelling of a lifetime.

But he was passed out drunk.

_Why? He promised. He promised. He promised to not drink anymore!_

I pitifully nudged an empty beer can with the tip of my foot, watching unfazed as it rolled across the room. The silver tin: blinding in the daylight, navy blue, a shimmering metallic, and the dim clank as the cylinder object would bump into an occasional obstacle until it rested near the dusty corner. And how infuriating some abiotic substance could be. It's presence remained, always there, and now it laid in the corner in taunting hypnosis.

_Whatever. Who cares anymore?_

I just wanted to sleep, call Gon because he understood the frustrations of weakness; forget this day ever happened. But when I opened my bedroom, a horrendous display slapped me directly in the face. Trash littered the floor, shelves cluttered half the room, black pubic hair sticking to the bathroom floor, cherry ice-cream spread on the toilet and mirrors, and behind me stood the old man. "I'm not sure if your father had time to tell you, but I'm going to be living here for a few months, so we had to move some stuff in your father's room into your room." He said in his raspy voice.

I clenched my fists.

Stage Two: The Roommate: Bizeff

Too many flaws about this man made me _extremely uncomfortable_. He was obsessed with Tinder and was alarmingly addicted to finding various twenty-year-old girls from Venezuela to marry in exchange for money. Father viewed it as saving a family from a difficult country, but I saw it as an indirect form of prostitution. Bizeff would come up to me, show me his phone, and say, "Which woman do you think is worth dating?"

And the most disturbing part: the type of girls he liked the most frighteningly resembled Alluka.

~*~

Sleep was not a luxury of that night, or the next, or the next after that. With a broken phone and no privacy, I had no way of telling my Mom the current status. I wanted to warn her, _beg_ her to keep Alluka away from this terror, but no. My uncle, who lives three houses down from my father, decided to carpool me after class each day, and I would wait for Alluka to get off the bus. But every time I opened my bedroom door, I was welcomed with a new disaster that I had the _pleasure_ of cleaning up so it would be somewhat livable for both Alluka and me. The afternoons, I would sit on the black upright piano and practice, and in the mornings, I'd lay on the soft blankets of my bed with a textbook in-hand, Alluka snuffling next to me. It was manageable, good even, but then came _change_.

With Bizeff came "The Deal"—the trigger to every following disaster.

Father worked in the oil industry, as many did in the state, and he was an entrepreneur. His goal: to get rich, _filthy rich_. And I had no such desire. I admired Father for his undeniable academic intelligence, everyone did. With only a Bachelor's degree, he exceeded those with PhDs and worked with successful businessmen. But "The Deal" separated the delusional from the sane, and that separated the entire family.

But who knows what sane is anymore? I didn't.

A notification lit up the home screen of my phone.

Just now

**Gon:** _If pure black is considered to devour reflections of all light, such as black holes, and the color white is the exact opposite, then what's the difference between pure white and a mirror?_

Jesus Christ.

**Killua:** _Are you trying to get me to do your physics homework again or something?_

**Gon:** _Killuuaaaaaa, pleaseeeee. I need someone smart to get me through this course._

**Killua:** _Pfft, you're the one who goes to an engineering school._

I rolled my eyes when Gon's incoming call interrupted the screen. I swiped to answer, "I already told you, I do physics next year."

"I know!" Gon hummed excitedly, "I just needed an excuse to hear your voice."

"Idiot-!"

"Hey, Killua."

I paused.

I could still envision him rolling my name so easily off his tongue, and how little effort it would take for him to completely snatch me off-guard and dissolve into a rambling, blushing mess. "Ging said I could bring a friend to the Astros game on Saturday. Could you maybe...go with me?" He finished.

"I didn't know you were into sports."

Gon snorted, "I'm not." his tone turned mischievous and somehow alluring, "But there _is_ ice-cream, cotton candy, pizza; do I need to go on?"

I snickered, "It almost seems like you're bribing me to date you." He yelped, and I burst into laughter. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding, but seriously, what if your aunt finds out?"

"Heh, as bad as this sounds, Ging is pretty good at hiding things."

"Uh-huh," I quirked an eyebrow, "and what does that imply?"

"It implies that I'm going to take Killua Zoldyck on another fantastic date even though we both know nothing about sports."

I laughed again. And with Gon, laughter was the easiest thing I've ever done.

~*~

"Brother," Alluka whined, "Gon keeps taking you away from me!"

I halted, a comb stuck in my tangled mess-as-hair. It's true. Ever since that day, I spent all night on the phone with Gon--whether that was lecturing him on getting other people to do his homework, or idle chit-chat--or listening to Gon as he would breakdown and me living in constant fear that one day, he _would_ slit his wrist, and there would be no going back—the fear of losing Gon. But I never made time for Alluka. "I'll spend more time with you from now on."

"Promise?"

I smiled, "promise." fingers gently threading her silky black hair. I checked my phone, anxious, jittery, virtually shaking.

3 minutes ago

 **Gon:** Are we supposed to dress up?

I rolled my eyes.

**Killua:** _To a sports game? Seriously, Gon._

**Gon:** _Hey! How was I supposed to know? You're so hard to impress._

**Killua:** _Well, you seem to enjoy the challenge._

**Gon:** _> :p_

I continued texting Gon until I hopped in the passenger's seat of my mother's Lincoln.

"Killua," Mom spoke up, her voice laced with concern, "this is the second time you're meeting Gon at an odd place. Since when were you into sports?"

"Since Gon," Alluka grumbled. I wondered if she was trying to tease me or if she was genuinely jealous. And I also pondered whether to be upset about it or not.

Dismissively waving my hand, "I'm a boy. That crap is normal."

Mom didn't seem convinced, but that thankfully didn't stop her from driving me over to the Astrodome.

The meeting was awkward, to say the least. Gon's dad didn't make that any better. Both my mother and I were caught off-guard with their nearly identical appearances and nearly _opposite_ personalities. Ging was gruff, eyes slightly more pointed than Gon's, hair a darker shade, and far shorter. But his personality: abrasive and aloof. There were some aspects I found similar: they thought alike, and I knew they were likely to approach a troublesome situation in the same way: rush in headlong without a doubt, but Gon was far more optimistic...and simple-minded.

Mother was the exact opposite. Ging was intelligent, that much was patent, but he hid it behind his abrupt language. Mom, though not having much prior education, spoke with formality. She's overprotective—what anyone would consider a helicopter mom, would only show her aggravation through hints (while Ging would flat out say it), and, the most alarming (and the evident) part, according to mother: Ging is gay—though that was based on her assumption alone.

To this day, I'm still surprised she willingly dropped me off without stalking me or hiding behind a bush (or cement pillar since it's the Astrodome).

"So you must be Killua Zoldyck." Said Ging with a mutual scowl.

My eyebrows furrowed, "Yeah..." yet I told myself not to return the hostility to avoid a clash because Gon _obviously_ wanted us to get along or become _best friends forever_ by the way his eyes gleamed with childish delight. And then I remembered the feeling of abandonment Gon felt towards his family, so the last thing I should do is make the matter more complicated.

Ging left us alone the entire night, and I thanked whatever deity out there, though, by any means, we were _not_ alone. The numerous people made the wide halls feel slender, the rattling noise of constant conversation rang in our surroundings, but that was the last thing we cared about.

"Okay, we have Dippin dots, pizza, cinnamon rolls, and slushies." Announced Gon, a whimsical look present in his eyes, and part of me wondered how much of it was because I was there. He stretched like he was about to run a marathon when, in fact, it was quite the contrary: a food race. "Three. Two-"

Defying physics (and Gon), I shoved an entire pizza slice in my mouth, which should've been proportionally impossible, and I even received looks as if I was a buffalo trying to mate with a butterfly.

"Killuaaaa, that's cheating!" Once Gon realized his mistake (that I was not going to ever stop eating all the food), he quickly stopped whining and crushed his face into the nearby cinnamon roll.

I won, obviously.

Bellies full, mouths sticky from various sweets, and droopy eyes. We sat just like that for a solid ten minutes. And then, "Hey, Killua."

"Hmm?"

"Follow me."

I moaned in distraught, "why? I like it here."

He chortled, " _The_ Killua Zoldyck shot down because of eating too much dessert. Tell me if I should be surprised or not."

"My family has immunity to cancers, heart attacks, and abusing their bodies through substances, so honestly, eating too much chocolate is the _only_ way I expect to see myself dying." 

We both laughed at that, but when he grabbed my hand so easily, so confidently like it was the most common or natural action on the face of the planet, I could only stare incredulously. And as Gon ran, I found it admittedly hard to keep up. _He not only grew taller but faster as well_. "Gon, where are you taking me?!" I yelled between breaths.

"It's a surprise!"

 _Of course. What isn't?_ A small smile grace my lips.

I mumbled apologies as we shoved our way through the crowd until Gon abruptly stopped, causing me to crash face-first into his _solid_ torso. "Gon, what the h-"

"Here we are!" Gon announced majestically, arms open as if he was an over-enthused businessman hosting a grand opening. But instead of cutting a silky red ribbon with luxurious, slender scissors, he slammed open the patio door, smashing a stranger's foot into the brick wall. 

"Kid, what the hell?!"

_Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful._

Gon endlessly spurted apologies until the man up and left, grumbling with a hardly audible hoarse, gravelly voice, leaving nothing left but the soft rumble of cheering inside and crickets singing the song of midnight nature.

"So," I intervened, ambling towards Gon with a playful grin and hands behind my back, "Is there some metaphor behind this place?"

Smiling in turn, "Nope" he replied, popping the 'p'.

"Then what makes this place so special?" I watched with wide, curious eyes as Gon leaned over the metal railing of the balcony, overhead lights caressing the edges of his face, and the darkness of night shadowing every perfect detail in his face. I continued to watch as the miniature curve in his lip curled to a heart-stopping smirk. He let out a bellowing sigh, "Why is it special you ask? Because of the goddamn peace and quiet."

I laughed quite hard at that. We both did.

He stared back off into the distance while I found myself hanging my arms over the edge in a swinging motion, hypnotized as they swayed right, left, then right again.

"These are the moments I miss most."

My heart throbbed, but I didn't bother facing him when I responded, "You know, you could always apply for my school. You're great with the piano, and I'm sure you'd get in."

I couldn't help but recollect all those early mornings in Summer Camp where Gon would play the piano, and it always left me with a loss of breath. But the thing that surprised me the most: he never played cheerful songs to accommodate his always-optimistic personality, but they were never lonely like mine. His left and right hand would always have an individual sound akin to a duet that anyone could lose themself in. I felt a distant connection to it like the concept of understanding was close enough to brush my fingers with, but would always slip away before I could grasp it—like we were on the same path, but he always stood a few steps ahead. And I never understood why.

At least, not until later.

He frowned. I already knew he didn't want to attend my school, but it was nonetheless disappointing.

"Sorry, Killua. If I attended that school, I know I would end up hating the instrument."

"Why's that?"

"Hmm...many reasons, I guess. The biggest reason: I would never indulge in something I love with something I hate. Piano, for me, is like expressing my feelings. Receiving criticism for my playing would destroy all meaning in it for me."

I didn't say anything in response—mostly because I disagreed. Perhaps not with Gon's opinion, but the logic behind it. We have the freedom of choosing our path, such as deciding a major in college, but everything has some semblance of suffering involved. There's always going to be something you hate following something you love even if it's just a barely visible shadow. And that was one thing I knew for sure our mentalities conflicted with.

I lived life solely for the purpose of others. To me, my life didn't matter; it only served as a machine to assist others. It's what my family had drilled into me through countless years of childhood. Why go to school? To prevent suffering for your family. Why endure every day of doing something you absolutely despise? Because the here-and-now moment is meaningless for success. Always be a few steps ahead.

But little did I know, that was the reason Gon surpassed me. He understood years before I ever did, and if only I realized the detriments of a self-destructive personality, so many events could've been avoided instead of awaiting a ticking time bomb.

Suddenly, music sounded from a nearby speaker attached to the ceiling. A guitar leading an introduction—not electric, but it sounded slightly different from an acoustic. But the first thing I noticed: the melancholy tone of dread...and regret.

A faced upwards palm appeared in front of my face, the same hand that I grabbed that began everything. "You want to dance?"

"I can't dance."

Gon chuckled, "you can't go wrong with Hotel California. Here, I'll guide you."

Heat rushed to my face when sturdy hands gripped my waist, my eyes locking his. And that one moment lasted an eternity of just searching, searching for every intention and feeling drowning in swirling irises. All my senses peaked when Gon's breath fanned my face. "Yeah," I whispered, "guide me."

He directed me to spin as I laughed airily until the dance morphed into a gentle sway. With a burst of confidence, I buried my head into his chest, cheek pressed up against him, and ears ringing as his heartbeat would sound with a rhythmic pulse. None of us spoke, and it was better that way.

Yeah, this is fine. I'm okay being confined, it's okay to be weak, and change is fine as long as there would be those few days that I could hold onto Gon like this; as long as I could remember the feeling of security and encase in his addicting scent that would always make my mouth water; as long as his innocent heartbeat remains beating. Everything will be okay as long as I have Gon to guide me.

So I directed my attention to the music.

" _Last thing I remember, I was running towards the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. 'Relax', said the night man, 'We are programmed to receive._

_You can check out any time you like. But you can never leave.'"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I wasn't able to update last week. Some...things happened to put it simply LOL. But seriously people, I can't thank you guys enough for reading, commenting, and liking this work. It means so much to me <33


	6. The Catastrophe of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just what is rock bottom?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter, so sit back and relax! :3

  
  


From the balcony discussion to dancing with my face tucked into Gon's chest, I always wondered why. I wondered why I sought the idea of finding a dream career fatuous, but that's when I'd find myself in front of a metaphorical mirror, a long, piercing crack akin to a lightning strike as seen on movies, and me, disheveled hair, eyes puffy from a recent breakdown, and clothes tattered, revealing so many scars, each wielding a memory I fought so hard to forget. And how fruitless of a battle that was.  _ In the end, you truly did turn into a broken vessel for your family. _

I question when, and I will always question when. But why did I need to know when? Maybe because if I knew when it all started, only then would I know if this nightmare is finite, or if this horrific vision we call reality is inevitable, or if that even matters.

You know it's the end when you hit rock bottom, but what does it take to get there? And how many scars will it leave behind? My mentality, my goals, the things I hold dearest to me--everything changed because of oozing scars. All of the anger, guilt, and sadness that will haunt me forever.

What more can I lose?

I wouldn't find that answer until later. 

  
  
  


Music meant everything to me before I even knew what music  _ was _ .

As a baby-- a happy, innocent, chubby, blue-eyed baby--I would stare at the keyboard with keys of black and white for hours, not in fear, not in concern, but with an unfathomable curiosity like that singular object before me served as a preamble to every single occurrence in my life. Something about the pattern of sound always made sense to me. I didn't  _ have _ to know the theory or the exact construction behind it because it  _ made sense _ . 

But everything made more sense with Gon. 

Summer camp, at the break of dawn, the piano echoed a nostalgic melody. It didn't matter what I was currently doing or thinking because the moment Gon's fingers came intact with the keyboard, time itself adjourned. One night, I sat next to him on the piano bench, watching, listening. His fingers moved with ease, the glossy, black paint of the piano reflecting starlight atop amber eyes, and the melody, gods the melody: dark minors that would instantly bring you to a tragic mindset, and I couldn't help but relate it to a requiem--a requiem for himself. 

His thighs every so often brushed against mine at the appliance of the sustain pedal, his breath hitched when he played a sforzando that emphasized the tonic of an Alberti bass, but the astonishing part, the one thing I couldn't begin to comprehend, and I could roll in bed all night thinking about it but would never get any closer to a breakthrough, the thing that came so naturally to Gon, and I just didn't understand how-- he always appeared happy, and even amidst a devastating requiem, he found the good, the _ happiness _ in it. 

When he finished, it took me a solid minute to snap back into reality.

"So, whatcha think?"

I smiled, "It's..." --b _ reathtaking, beautiful, keep playing for me always _ \--but I didn't say any of that, of course. "Who wrote it?"

Gon presented a cheeky grin.

"No way."

"Mhm, I wrote it a few months back." He straddled the piano bench to face me, eyebrows suddenly knitting in all seriousness, "Did you spot anything I could fix? I'm in desperate need of some constructive feedback," he awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck.

Overwhelmed at the shocking discovery, I sat staring at him blankly for a moment too long. "Right," I fumbled around, trying to distract myself from Gon's eyes boring into me with a dark, intense glare. I knew I was blushing because a sudden rush of scorching heat circulated in my cheeks.  _ He wanted feedback from me,  _ were my thoughts. "Maybe change some of the Alberti basses the left hand. Sometimes it can get a bit repetitive, but it sounded pretty good to me--the climactic point, the progression-"

"Sing for me."

I whipped my head around, now directly facing him, "Gon, I told you yesterday. The answer is-

"Yeah, I know the answer is no." He sighed, leaning his head back, a small smile curving the corner of his lips, but his eyes remained on me, "But I did say I'll keep asking."

I rolled my eyes, "Suit yourself."

A silence.

"Killua, what do you want to do when you're older?"

Ah, this question. This one question I've changed from ' _ what do I want to do _ ' to ' _ what am I capable of doing _ ', this bothersome question that separated the optimists from the pessimists, and my answer that, in some form of another, said, ' _ I don't know _ ' because I don’t know myself. 

Teachers, friends, even strangers would then ask, 'well, what do you like doing?' and I would always wonder how that had any correlation to what I would be doing as a career because to me, it didn't. I never cared to be on top, but I knew competition existed in the world. While others worry about the disadvantages of race, sex, etc, my disadvantage was, undoubtedly, my personality.

I'll declare, 'I want to be a musician.' 

'You don't have the motivation,' they'll say.

'I want to be an engineer.'

'You aren't assertive enough.'

'I'm going to be an entrepreneur.'

'Only sociable optimists succeed in that line of work.'

The obstacles were endless, and I envied those who were naive to them because they were certain of themselves, which makes them optimistic towards the future, which gives them willing dedication; which allows them to succeed.

So, what do I want to do when I'm older?

"I want to be happy."

Gon tilted his head, "but what job do you want?"

"I don't know yet."

He opened his mouth to say something when, suddenly, he paused as if he finally understood. 

Another silence--the longest yet. 

"I'm going to be a songwriter,” declared Gon.

There was a moment where we both stared at one another in the eyes, but I knew better than to give myself away and stare at his lustrous, parted lips.  _ No, I wouldn't stare at them no matter how tempting they may be. _

"I think that's a perfect path for you," I responded, truthfully, and I wasn't just saying it to make Gon's dreams soar. His talent was evident, and the always-there smile plastering his face clearly illustrated that he truly enjoyed fabricating music. I knew I enjoyed listening to it. No doubts there. 

Gon shook his head, "I want to be a songwriter with you by my side."

I nearly passed out from the sheer amount of heat rushing to my head. Right, I need to respond. Communication, yes. Yes, that.

Deep breaths. 

"I'll always be here," I said.

Gon's entire face lit up. He pulled me into an embrace, and I didn't hesitate to wrap my arms securely around his frame, tucking my face into his neck, inhaling his intoxicating scent. Tears clouded my vision but never descended. I needed comfort like some pitiful puppy who betrayed their owner--the person they worshiped with every aspect of their being. I needed to hold onto Gon. Why?

Because I lied. 

  
  
  
  


It was the beginning of November and with that came the first school recital. I had no confidence in my upcoming performance. I hated the piece, hated the audience, and hated these three hours of suffering, of _ listening _ to proof that I was the worst pianist. Gon had texted me for good luck. I answered with a simple thanks, but part of me wanted Gon to be here, next to me, playing with me like the old days--like our promise. 

This particular recital brought fame to our school. Hundreds, thousands of people would attend whether they're family members, recruiters, or simply commonfolk. Everyone would play their hardest piece of the year, and that made sense, but it apparently didn't make enough sense to my teacher.

Just moments before the recital, I walked into the Piano Lab only to see seven students playing my piece at the same time with jeering mockery, expressions saying, ' _ See, it's that easy!' _

'Fuck you all, dipshits,' is what I said in response, which is considered abnormal behavior on my part. I've kept my composure for years, yet that seemed to translate to others that I was either an exceedingly shy introvert, a teenager going through the 'emo phase,’ or just an ass in general.

But all hatred, anger, and frustration disappeared when one student sauntered on stage, a blindingly white dress with rose-gold cherry blossoms stitched in fine thread elegantly draping off her shoulders, and flowing in a hypnotic manner behind her. Her silky black hair glistened with embedded silver jewels. I didn't remember her name, nor had I recalled seeing her before, yet there she stood, playing Chopin's First Ballade in g minor like it was all a dream, a reverie.

In the darkness of the recital hall, the carpets stained the color of scarlet blood, limelight directed on the one and only girl on stage in solitude; an audience of silence--no babies crying and no bothersome coughs, just her on stage alone with the piano. The intensity of the moment was all caused by her delicate, slender fingers. Father stood next to me, whispering, "That song is beautiful."

It was. It really really really was, but the strange part is: I couldn't begin to explain why. 

Several minutes later, Ikalgo, perhaps my only friend in the school, put a hand on my shoulder, "Killua, you're crying..."

"Oh," I used my sleeve to rub my wet eyes, "I didn't notice," which was true. 

The performance ended, and she received a standing ovation. The luminous spotlight dimmed, the darkness encroaching all. There was a moment of pregnant disbelief of me simply staring into the abyss. It's funny, really. In the end, that singular song morphed from a journey to self-worth, to the crumbling of a decent family, to an act of suicide, of failure, and truly hitting rock. Bottom.

  
  


~*~

  
  
  


It’s been three months since seeing, touching, or  _ doing anything _ with Gon Freecss. At least, not doing anything besides listening and being completely helpless to him crying on the phone, a razor blade to his vitals. The occurrences were endless: his friend dying in a school shooting, a newly discovered older sister that ran away when he and his twin were born, and his lack of freedom, despite being such a free-spirit by heart. He was a completely different person than the one I first met, or maybe he was the same. Maybe, this was me realizing that we never knew each other at all. 

I began to dread incoming phone calls from Gon, but I always answered. There was a fifty-fifty chance of me getting the happy, positive Gon or the dark, hollow version of him. 

I picked up the phone, “Gon?”

“Killuuaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

I instinctively threw my phone across my bedroom, ears ringing; even feeling a slight vibration throughout my body. Alluka rolled her eyes, reading in the corner of our room atop the blue bean bag, “he’s loud.” she grumbled, but there was a smile on her face.

Once picking up the phone  _ again,  _ I made sure to  _ immediately _ lower the volume. 

“Killua, you know, it’s mean to ignore people.”

I laughed, “it’s mean to bust people’s eardrums.”

“Hmm...maybe, but I know it makes you happy.”

Breath caught in my throat. I faced my back towards Alluka so she wouldn’t see the pink in my cheeks, “so what happened with you today?”

“Lots of things! Well, I somehow exploded my digital piano, so that sucked,  _ but, _ I found a way we might be able to see each other tomorrow.”

A smile curled my lips, “whereat?”

“Dunlavy Park. Aunt Mito will be attending church at that time.”

“...okay,” I was reluctant with my answer, knowing my mom would be suspicious, and there was a hesitation of asking my father, but it had to be done. Gon had always been the one to organize our meetings. It was unfair to him. I felt neglectent--like I was showing him I didn’t care. But in reality, I was scared. “I’ll figure something out,” I said.

He hummed in affirmation.

“So, how did you manage to fulminate your keyboard?”

“Oh! Wait wait wait, I need to tell this story  _ properly _ .” He cleared his throat, “it was a dark and stormy night…”

I laughed all former doubts away. The doubts that caused me to dangerously doubt if Gon was right for me--the doubts that made me  _ doubt Gon. _

“...and that’s how the middle C caused my beautiful piano to implode.”

I recoiled over, laughing. I let my back fall on the silken sheets on top of my bed as he continued rambling about his  _ oh-so-dramatizing  _ day. 

__ I was dying to see Gon, to pull him into a loving embrace instead of hearing him over the phone deteriorate and me being unable to do anything, to kiss him at random moments because those are the moments that matter most, or maybe to even fall asleep in his arms as I did the night of the stargazing from the swaying tree. I wanted Gon always beside me—no doubt there. 

  
  
  
  


After hanging up with Gon, I skulked the corridors, eyes darting from room to room for my father. Alluka and I were staying at Father’s house for the week. At the time, Father’s house meant no bedtimes and video games every second of the day, and Mother’s house meant getting disciplined and taken care of. Evidently, being stupid kids at the time, we liked Father’s house more. 

My dad owned a Game Center when I was born. Back in the day, when kids could only play together on LAN, that was the place  _ all _ students went to play video games. Consequently, that led to me being addicted to video games at the age of two. 

Yes, I was kicking teenagers’ ass at PvP when I was two years old. 

But that’s beside the point.

This led to two things. One, entitling me to be the biggest geek on the planet. Two, developing nocturnal instincts, therefore, insomnia. I’m not sure what’s worse. 

I cracked the Game Room’s door open, “Father?”

Father had glasses on, two disassembled PC’s adjacent to his crouched figure. “Ah, Killua, could you help me build this computer? We’re transporting a lot of data, and I need at least four fans to keep the computer from overheating.” 

I sighed, sitting next to him, grabbing a Phillips screwdriver, and getting to work. 

I.T., typically a man’s job. For that reason, I always felt guilty—guilty because Alluka was left out, but thankfully, she hasn’t thought enough about it to feel abandoned. I continued to tinker with the neon fans, finally placing them in the correct order to enable proper airflow. 

Father looked up, placing his big hands on my head, and patted me. When I was younger, I did everything as told to receive those simple, yet oh-so-wonderful pats on the head. I would do anything to make him proud of me. It meant everything. 

“You always know what’s right.” He said.

I tilted my head, “you’re the one that taught me-“

“No, not just electronics. A small smile curved his lips, “I mean that you always know what’s right in general. It’s your morality that you always listen to even when you doubt everything else about yourself. That’s why I’m proud to work beside you in the family business.” 

My eyes widened. At the time, it was everything I ever wanted. I didn’t say anything in response. I just smiled and plugged in the computer, LEDs flickering on, decorating the insides of the computer. Maybe there were some flaws about my father, but at the time, that’s all it was: minor flaws. 

After a few minutes of silence, I opened my mouth to ask my question. “Dad?” A small silence, “can I go to the park to meet with a friend?”

“Of course you can, as long as they’re good friends.” He sighed, “I fear Alluka doesn’t choose the right people sometimes.”

I frowned. He was right, and for that reason, Alluka felt insecure and always stuck around me like a superglue. Selfishly, I was okay with that, but I didn’t think of the negative consequences for my sister. She seemed happy now, right? 

I sauntered back to the bedroom I shared with Alluka, opening the door timidly. My gaze met her sleeping figure, her black hair disheveled, and body sprawled on every available space of bedding. Carefully tucking her in, I remembered one night, a night I cursed myself for overlooking because she suppresses her honest emotions more than everyone in the family. Maybe she wasn’t happy, perhaps she’s suffering and none of us know; what if it’s my fault?

“Killua?” she had asked. That night was masked as any other night. We were both in bed, my back facing hers, “hmm?’ I responded groggily.

“What am I doing wrong?”

I turned over, bewildered, “You aren’t doing anything-”

“No, I must be,” her voice cracked, “I try and abide by every rule, always doing as told, yet…” She began crying, and me being startled, did nothing, but she continued, “yet everyone likes you more. My friends, my teachers, even  _ the family _ . I always thought it was because you were talented. I mean, you were one in five people to get accepted into the piano department, you won various art awards, you were captain of the track team, you got all A’s,  _ heck _ , you’re even better at video games.”

“It’s because I’m older, Allu-”

“That’s bullshit!”

I winced. 

After a wordless time, sniffles echoing off the tall ceilings, Alluka continued, “The family tells me I’m not committed enough, but I try to be. I try to like music, I try to like sports,  _ I try _ , but I can’t help but give up.”

_ I’m the same _ , I wanted to say. Instead, I wrapped my arms around her, maybe then she’d feel less alone. Perhaps she could still go to sleep happy like she so often is...or, so it seemed. I didn’t realize then, but perhaps it wasn’t too late. 

Bringing myself back from memory lane, I plopped by the plain, white desk in front of the only window present in the basic bedroom. Grabbing a blank piece of paper and a few pencils, I began my craft. 

‘ _ Killua, what do you want to do when you’re older? _ ’ I remembered Gon asking.

“I want to be happy,” I whispered to myself. Turning around, I watched Alluka snuffle with a plushie held close to her chest, “and I want you to be happy, too.”

  
  


~*~ 

  
  


Dunlavy park was beautiful. It reminded me of an oasis amidst a dry, lifeless desert because even amongst Houston City, the city often categorized as having an awful climate and an unbearable amount of people, a city that no one lives in unless they have to, but  _ even  _ Houston had an oasis, a haven. It was spacious, rolling hills blurring in the distance, overgrowth neighboring towering oak trees, appearing almost purposeful, and the peace and quiet--the peace and quiet meant everything. Father had dropped me off, so for the first time since camp, Gon and I could be alone. 

I ambled up a small hill, looking at the clear, blue sky as puffy clouds accompanied the light breeze of winter, my clothing crinkling as well. Here I could close my eyes and feel safe, here is where everything felt  _ right _ . 

“Killua!”

I spun around to see Gon running towards me from a distance, and I wondered if I ever smiled so big in my life.

Before I could catch a breath, Gon crushed me in an embrace. He hummed, “I missed you so much.”

I shivered at his breath fanning my exposed neck, thanking whatever deity that Gon is here with me in his arms. Wet droplets fell on my shoulder, “Gon?” I squeezed his shoulders, laughing a little, “Are you crying?”

He laughed, his face still tucked into my neck and my face still resting on his shoulders, “I guess I am.” He pulled away, and even though I knew it couldn’t last forever, I found it hard to push down my disappointment. 

“This place is beautiful,” I said-- just to make conversation.

Gon began walking ahead, gesturing for me to follow, “Isn’t it? I come here all the time. It’s the only place my aunt let me go to be by myself.”

I trailed closely behind him, watching as his tank top revealed his bulging shoulder blades. Then my eyes traveled to his shoulders, his arms, his thighs, every part of him so firm--I knew from experience. Just observing him had me swallow hard. I didn’t think it was even possible for Gon to get more and more attractive each time I saw him. ‘Guess he proved me wrong.

Gon had a whole picnic set upon a nice, quilted blanket. He flopped down, eyeing me with a suggestive smile, “you like?”

I rolled my eyes, “yes, Gon, you’re amazing.” 

I perked up when seeing a snickers bar invade my vision. Snatching it, I instantly tore it open and began nibbling on it.

He laughed, “That statement is only sarcastic until I feed you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said dismissively, munching between syllables. “So,”  _ munch munch _ , “what’s the plan?”

“I’d rather show you.”

“Hmm, okay.”

After finishing my chocolate bar, quite satisfied, I might add, he grabbed my hand, pulling me towards a humongous oak tree, probably the biggest one I’ve ever seen. “Yeah, I’m not climbing that.” I deadpanned.

“Aw, but the view is great from up there. I could always pick you up again,” Gon added with a smirk. 

“Pfft, you think because you’re taller and got all bulked up, I’d trust you with picking me up?” I suspiciously eyed him, “how do I know you won’t drop me?”

He took a step closer,  _ too close. Damn it, Gon! _

__ “Because I’m taller and bulked up.” His palm swiped across my shoulder, and I remained still as a statue when circled behind me. Suddenly, I’m feeling his breath caress my ear, “you said it, not me.”

I tried so desperately to suppress a shiver, not wanting to give him any semblance of victory. Alas, that failed. “Idiot,” but the insult lacked bite. 

Gon’s fingers feathered under the hem of my shirt. Red coated my cheeks, “Gon-”

“I’m going to lift you on the count of three.”

_ Just like the old days _ , but this time, I didn’t protest. His solid, calloused palms pressed my sides as he gently lifted me. My arms came intact with the rough bark of the tree, limbs entwining around the branch. With fluency, I pulled my body up. Gon followed close behind. Finally reaching the top with little assistance, I flopped down on the top branch, panting.

“ _ The _ Killua Zoldyck getting out of shape?”

“Shut up, moron. It’s not like a performing arts school has athletics.”

“There’s the dance department.” He replied pointedly.

“Like hell I could get into that.”

Gon chuckled, “while I do like muscles, I’d rather not be topped.”

“Of course you’d think of that, pervert,” I raised my eyebrows, bemused, “keep talking like that and you aren’t getting anything.”

Gon moaned in distress, “I’m going to die a virgin!”

We laughed.

A moment later, Gon began climbing down, “I think it’ll be more comfortable to cloud gaze from below. After all, it took a lot of effort to sneak the quilt out of the house,” he grimaced. 

I nodded. 

Upon reaching the ground, Gon grabbed the blanket, and I followed him up the grassy hill. He gingerly flattened it out, laying down with a thud, then signaled me to lay with him after I caught myself staring. I awkwardly let my back rest against the softest blanket I have ever encountered. I sighed in content. Everything felt perfect.

Gon pointed at a cloud above, “that one looks like a constipated dog.”

I choked.  _ Fucking...Gon. _

Laughing a bit, he continued, “but as lovely as naming the shapes of clouds is, I’d much rather look at you.”

And just as quickly as Gon got me to laugh, I grew flustered. I couldn’t fathom how he could say such things with indifference, and I only grew redder when Gon leaned above me. His amber eyes glistened, his hair too tempting to sink my fingers into; his flawless smile accentuated everything in the right places. 

“Killua, can I kiss you?” 

I made a quiet noise. 

His face inched closer by the second, my incredulous expression faded by the moment, and I finally gave in when our shared breath lingered. The fresh mint with something else present in his breath had all nerves spike, arousal twisting in my gut. Instinctively, my eyes fluttered shut.

The first touch was swift and experimental. It came as fast as it went, but kissing the boy I was enamored with meant everything. “Haven’t done that in a while,” whispered Gon. His chapped lips brushed against mine as he spoke.

I smiled, “too long.” 

Our lips meant once again, gaining more momentum and confidence with each breath and prudent touch. His thumb swiped against my reddening cheek, and my fingers crawled upwards to gently tug on a handful of thick, black locks. Even though I relished every moment, the selfish desire in me wanted more. I yearned for him to lose himself in me, to break the ice-thin feeling of insecurity and uncertainty with much more confided ones, but for now, this would do. We had all the time we needed. Why rush it? 

My heart thumped rapidly, and a smile stuck to my face as Gon feathered kisses along my cheeks, the bridge of my nose, my eyelids, and back to my lips with a peck before letting go and sitting up to fidget with something. 

“What are you doing?” I asked, feeling a bit whiney from the loss of warmth. 

Gon pressed his palm on my chest to prevent me from sitting up, “it’s a surprise.”

After apparently finding what he needed, he tucked his face in my neck, flopping all his weight on me. He hummed, “I love you.”

I hummed back a quiet response. He could say it a million times, and I don’t think I’d ever get used to it. I wouldn’t ever  _ want _ to get used to it because I didn’t want anything to change from where it stood at that moment. 

He pulled out a ring. I jolted up, “Gon, what are you doing-”

Gon rested his head on my stomach like a small child, “it’s for you,” he mumbled, a grin tugging his right lip. He grabbed my hand, thick finger’s prying it open and dropping the ring inside. Slowly, he molded by hand into a fist, squeezing it with care, “Maybe, it can be another item you’ll have to remind yourself of me.”

I opened my hand, and on my palm was a shimmering silver ring with crushed opal lining the middle. Colors gleamed like splashed watercolor, like Gon. I bit my lip to prevent it from trembling and gently closed my palm once more. “Thank you, Gon.”

  
  


~*~

  
  


_ Nature’s first green is gold, _

_ Her hardest hue to hold. _

_ Her early leaf’s a flower; _

_ But only so an hour. _

_ Then leaf subsides to leaf. _

_ So Eden sank to grief, _

_ So dawn goes down to day. _

_ Nothing gold can stay. (Robert Frost) _

I read this poem from  _ The Outsiders _ , the only book that didn’t feel mandatory to read in seventh grade English. It was a story about kids, and that’s all they were--merely children adapting to the unraveling injustices of society. Funny enough, it’s the kids that handled troublesome situations more like adults. Maybe we’re all children, maybe that’s the plague in our society: the utter selfishness of children, or perhaps it’s the light--the shining brightness of naivety, of innocence, yet even that can be destructive.

For me, maturity came with the abandonment of others. It came with the harsh realization of the genuinely selfish nature of humanity and how we are all taught to avoid any risky situation to avoid danger as often as possible. All the social experiments conducted: kids starving on the streets, the kid getting beat up in the hallway, and all of us with our phones out recording--it’s all the same. But, did you ever think about the victim? If you’re honest with yourself, then probably not. We never think about the victim until we become one.

A famous quote in  _ The Outsiders _ is to “stay gold,” meaning, stay unblemished; stay uncorrupted by the corrupters of society. I couldn’t help but relate it to the fact that optimism relies on hope, and hope can be associated with innocence, and only children have that. Perhaps we’re all pessimists, and the optimists are liars, and maybe, lying to yourself is good. Hell, I wish I was better at it.

Regardless, nothing gold can stay. 

  
  
  


Annually, our family goes on a winter vacation to Keystone, Colorado--since Houston never snows. It was one vacation that we all gotta do what we wanted without it conflicting. Alluka loved skiing, and I promised to try snowboarding out with my dad as a teacher. The plane ride was strenuous, babies crying, nearly losing our luggage, and a hazardous snowstorm, yet here we were, hopping out of the rented vehicle at the base of the mountain. Alluka went straight for a pile of snow, shaping a snowball with her knitted gloves and throwing it directly to my ass.

Remorsefully, I did not dodge in time. 

“Alluka, that was an unfair shot!”

She snickered, “since when were you one to play fair?”

_ Touche _ .

I grabbed four snowballs and began chasing her.

After a vicious snowball fight that resulted in snow compiled in  _ rather unfortunate _ places, Dad gave us our gear and helped us on the gondola. Mom stayed behind to get some grocery shopping done. 

“Ready to go down the mountain?” Dad asked.

Alluka responded with an enthusiastic cheer.

Once reaching the peak, we started on level Green, which is the easiest path. What they left out is it was the easiest path for  _ skiers _ and  _ not _ snowboarders. While Alluka figured out how to ski, I was stuck walking down the mountain. Since snowboarders don’t have poles to get them through flat spots, we have to gain enough momentum to stay moving through those areas, but that meant going astray from the rest of the family.

And since I’m already complaining about the injustices snowboarders frequently face, it’s only appropriate to mention:  _ Ski Lifts.  _ Now, I don’t know which motherfucker invented these, but it definitely  _ didn’t _ aid my cause. I had always been considered indecisive, and sadly having a dominant foot or hand didn’t contradict that. While that did have its advantages in piano, it didn’t with snowboarding. On the first ski lift, Father told me I should never completely unhook my foot from the board. Though I was reluctant, I complied. 

The first step off the chair lift, snowboard slipped, and I flew down the mountain. 

I’m sure those pictures of me tumbling down the mountain and looking like a snowman will come back to haunt me. 

Snow is unforgiving. 

Anyway, the day came to a close. We made our way back to the base of the mountain, Alluka had the duty of not leaving out  _ any _ detail of my adventure to Mom, and we packed up everything in the trunk. Father left to get something at a store temporarily and stayed gone for half an hour, but we didn’t care. Everything was perfect. Alluka and I had a constant smile on our faces.

At least, until he came back with a bottle of hard liquor in his hands. 

When he opened the car door, Mother and I went completely silent. As forceful as a blizzard, the stench of alcohol flooded the closed space, and my blood ran cold. 

Father scavenged for his phone, “Any help, or are you that useless?” he whispered to my mother, but only her and I heard. 

Mom hesitantly handed him his phone.

“I heard from a buddy that they allow night skiing now. Alluka, how about you come with me?”

My heart plummeted. She would be completely helpless alone with him drunk.

Mother interjected, “Alluka isn’t going night skiing. She’s only ten.”

An Alcoholic--an abusive one. He abuses the substance and others around him. The moment I saw the bottle of clear liquid in his hands, I knew everything we had was ruined. He would scream at mom, interrogate me, and leave Alluka alone like she never existed. When he’s told no, that’s when the danger gets severe. 

Father’s face turned red from anger, he began to show his gritted teeth.

“I’ll go!” I said suddenly. 

Mom looked at me in horror.

I continued, stumbling a bit on my words, “I didn’t get to snowboard much today, and I never snowboarded at night before.”  _ I needed to save the family from him. _

Dad responded with a toothy grin, “great, I’ll get the gear from the trunk.”

When he closed the door, all that was left was silence and dread. 

I jumped out of the car, and Mom rolled the window down, our gaze never meeting, “this is the stupidest decision you’ve ever made.”

Before I could reply, she drove away.

  
  
  
  


The sun began setting, my clothing dampened from snowflake after snowflake landing on the fabric. I was sore, too sore, but I had to distract him. 

“Killua, *hic* look at those snowboarders,” he pointed at a couple passing by. 

I sweatdropped, “yes, let’s get on the gondola before it’s too late.”

Dad was unresponsive.

“Let’s get on the gondola before it’s too late,” I repeated. 

Finally, he looked up, eyes unfocused, “Gondola...gondola,” he laughed, “Oh, we have to get on the gondola!”

It was sickening, his disgusting breath, the smell of sweat, and I knew I had to be as obedient as possible. I was scared, terrified even, but I’m protecting Mom and Alluka, I told myself.

_ ‘This is the stupidest decision you’ve ever made _ ,’

If it meant saving them, I’d do it again, and again, and again.

  
  
  
  
  


I threw my board down, coughing. Blood splattered on my frozen, and completely dysfunctional hand. It had to be past midnight, “Dad,” I called out over and over again, “Silva Zoldyck!” No answer. I lost him on the way down the mountain. He could be miles away, and I would never know. The wind was brutal, the feeling of needles pressed on my face. My voice weakened, and my throat grew hoarse as I called out my father’s name amongst the gushing wind. 

My blood spotted the unblemished snow. “Silva...Zoldyck,” I chocked out.

Giving up, I flopped down on the snow, “it’s all unfair,” I mumbled out, water freely streaming down my face. “It’s all so unfair.” I watched unfazed as the blood dispersed on the snow’s surface, I watched as the scarlet color clawed its way and eradicated all purity in the process; I watched, helpless, weak. 

Suddenly, the ring Gon gave me glistened reflected starlight.  _ What am I doing? I have to find Dad. We have to both get home safe. _

As I buckled myself back in, I stood up with a wobble. Gon was right, I was getting out of shape. I sped down the mountain, lifting the board and jumping over small hills, and smiling as the icy wind blowing my white bangs out of my face. Everything can still go well tonight. All I have to do is get us back safely, and Dad would have exercised off the alcohol, and Mom can sleep happily. 

__ Around two hours later, I finally reached the base of the mountain, and my face lit up when finding Father made it down the same path, and only a few minutes later. 

But I made a terrible miscalculation. 

His water bottle wasn’t holding water. It was holding alcohol. My blood ran cold, my heart dropping to my stomach. He wasn’t exercising off the alcohol. Instead, he was more intoxicated than ever. 

I scrambled to grab my phone. I needed to call Mom or somebody immediately. 

It froze.

In denial, I kept pressing the buttons, “come on, come on,  _ come on-” _

__ Out of nowhere, a swift punch to the jaw had me slam to the ground. Coughing and spitting, I shakily reached forward to pull myself up.

“You didn’t think to wait for me?!” yelled an all-too-familiar voice. 

Another blow to the stomach. Blood splattered, dripped, and puddled. I waited for it to stop because that’s all I  _ could _ do:  _ wait _ . 

And then it stopped, I glanced up to see Father passed out on the bench. It was my chance to shuffle through his bag, my fingers latched onto the water bottle. I threw it as far as I could and continued scavenging until I finally found his phone. 

I didn’t know the password. 

_ No, no, no! _

He woke up again; I flinched, “give me my phone!” he demanded.

I complied.

“You didn’t even call that woman? How could I raise such stupid kids…” 

I didn’t dare cry, but the words stung. 

__ That’s when I was saved by a miracle--three men walked towards the bus stop. I never ask for help, but this time, I needed it. “I’m sorry to bother you, but can I please borrow your phone?”

They paused, eyeing me suspiciously.

Desperate, I began to ramble, “My father is drunk, I don’t know the name of the hotel I’m staying at, and I need to call my mother. Please...please let me use your phone. It’ll be quick, I promise!”

They stared at me as if they were mocking my vulnerability. And then, to my utter dismay, they walked away. 

Tears began gushing down--not because Father beat me up, not because of those hurtful words that played over and over again like a broken record inside my head, but because three men didn’t bother to show a single act of humanity for something as simple as lending a phone call; I was crying because they didn’t want to get involved with something so bothersome. It was then I realized the truth. 

As my tears ran dry, I glanced back to find my father passed out again. Clothing wet, nose bleeding, blood stained on my jacket, my right hand frozen, and with a dead phone, I began walking. I didn’t know where I was going--it didn’t matter. 

Maybe I’d find my way back, maybe not, but I knew one thing for sure: nothing gold can stay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so hard for me to write, but it was definitely the beginning of a trend of catastrophes. I would like to warn people that this book is going to get dark--this chapter simply being a beginning. And despite me feeling like everyone needs to know that domestic violence, such as this, happens so frequently, it's not my decision to cause people to read something that may disturb them unwillingly. 
> 
> (And for those who are worried about my mental health--I swear I'm fine XDDDD
> 
> For those who have read my other stories, which book would you like to see updated more often? It's beginning to get quite hard to keep so many going at once, so I'm thinking of prioritizing one of them and making sure to update that weekly along with alternating the others. Anyway, thanks for reading this far! <3


	7. It’s a World of Muck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAD TO REWRITE THIS CHAPTER EIGHT TIMES, so I’m very sorry for the wait. I had the worst writers block.

“My mother found me lying in the snow later that night in a small puddle of blood. Apparently, I was headed in the correct direction, but I grew too sore to move. I was out cold for approximately two hours…” 

Alateen: a recovery group for adolescents with guardians who are or were alcoholics. My grandmother figured it’d be a place for me to not feel alone, a place where other kids had similar experiences, but in truth, I never felt more alone. My life was far from the worst, but it was damaging, by all means. These kids--these kids around me weren’t damaged, and their _parents_ were the ones taking them to these meetings, _the alcoholics themselves_. _Their_ parents identified they had a problem; my father didn’t. There’s no _use_ blaming a substance abuser if they never blame themself-- if they never even realize they _have_ a problem. So who do you blame? The substance? Humanity? No. You blame yourself. 

“That’s what alcoholism does,” The blonde woman, the individual leading the meeting, had said. 

I laughed behind gritted teeth, blown out eyes focused maniacally on the disgusting tile floor, “Alcohol, alcohol, alcohol, blame the alcohol. Sure, this situation was caused by a drink, but that  _ wasn’t _ the traumatizing part.” My voice escalated in volume, “Perfectly sober people  _ left _ me behind. Oh, you’re probably thinking: those were three idiots.  _ Even family _ discards the insane. That was merely the first time, but I still  _ stupidly _ called for help.”

Yet even here, the one place that’s purpose was to  _ not _ feel like you lost your mind, I felt like I lost my mind.

Why am I even explaining this when I know they’ll never understand? To pass time, maybe? Perhaps I strived to find some sort of relief that someone else will know the whole story. Perhaps, this was my final call for help. 

  
  
  
  


I blinked open my eyes to a waking nightmare. A warm, damp rag rested on my forehead under my bangs, and a cozy blanket wrapped securely around my limp body. Downstairs, I heard doors slamming and Father groaning and yelling intelligible words. I winced as glassware shattered. Glancing to the right side of the condo’s bedroom, Mother clenched the bedsheets. Thank the lord Alluka was asleep. 

“Are you awake, Kil?”

“...Yeah.”

Suddenly, Father slammed a kitchen cabinet shut, causing me and Mom to flinch again. “Does he know we’re up here?” I whispered.

“...I don’t think he remembers there’s an upstairs,” my mother whispered back. 

The rest of the night we waited in fear for him to remember the stairway to our bedroom, we watched in disgust as Father passed out on the toilet, and we over and over again told ourselves, ‘ _ It’ll get better _ ,’ when things never do. 

Five more days of this so-called-vacation, I told myself. Father is going to act like nothing happened, same with Mom, but I wondered if I could do the same. He’ll notice the raging bruise under my chin, he’ll know what happened, but he will say it’s on me for falling so much while snowboarding. He’ll notice the limp in my walking, he’ll know what happened, but he will joke, ‘ _ did you hook up with the wrong sex or something? _ ’ Lastly, he’ll notice my hard stare, he’ll know what happened, but he will blame it on something else, and I’ll simply say, ‘I will  _ never _ forget,’ just so he couldn’t, either. 

But what’s the point in blaming someone who doesn’t blame themself? There isn’t one.

So you blame yourself.

  
  
  
  


Morning is lots of things. It’s a feeling of refreshment, a new start. It can be a welcome to a day of promised laziness under the cozy rise of the sun, but that next morning was nothing but a time on the clock. Purple circles discolored under my eyes and a red glaze pierced my irises. My movements were slow as I ambled downstairs. Alluka wrestled with Dad, Mom made breakfast, and I only stared in horror. Is this simply normal now? I guess so. 

Upon being summoned to the table for breakfast, we all came together and ate in silence. 

“Are we going skiing again today?” Alluka asked excitedly.

Dad replied between mouthfuls of food, “I’ll help you go down the mountain once my horrible headache dies down. How about you, Kil?”

I didn’t bother to look up, stabbing food with my fork in agitation, “why not.”

Within only a few hours, we were back at the base of the mountain. I trudged with my snowboard in-hand past the bus stop, past Dad’s water bottle that still laid in the snow by the wooden bench, and finally to the line for the gondola. 

“You have a wicked bruise right here on your-” my father reached over to touch my face.

I slapped his hand away, giving him my coldest stare, “I will  _ never _ forget.”

  
  
  
  
  


~*~

  
  
  
  


__ Three-year-old me’s bottom bounced and legs dangled on top of Father’s shoulders. He marched through the fields of tall grass, the moon illuminating our way.  _ Crunch,  _ leaves will say, as my father trudges with heavy footsteps to a bonfire we built together that night. Upon reaching our destination, he threw me up in the air and gently put me down. I can still remember the joy of having wind graze my hair as I’d fly up then down, and I’d think it’s a shame birds didn’t have the mental capacity to feel the essence of freedom or enjoy flying when and wherever you want. I struggled to lift a sturdy piece of firewood, rolling the triangular shape and throwing it in the flames with an oof. Fire curled around it, sucking the crackling wood into a pit of embers. 

“You’re thinking too loud,” Father jokes. 

Confused with wide-eyed innocence, I questioned, “how can you hear my thinking?”

He clicked his tongue, “good parents always know what their children are thinking.”

“Oh…” I stared at the ground with knitted eyebrows and tiny teeth biting the scar on the inside of my cheek— caused by numerous surgeries I underwent due to respiratory issues. “That must be complicated. Not only do you have to sort your own thoughts, but you have to worry about another person’s, too.”

“Siblings can sometimes do that.”

“Whoa, really?” I jumped in delight, “do you think I’ll be able to do that with Alluka when she leaves Mom’s belly?”

He shrugs, “who knows?”

The wood continued to pop as fireflies buzzed around us, droplets of moisture from the humidity sticking to our bare arms and legs. I situated myself on my father’s lap, nuzzling my face into his chest and feeling the complete sense of security and unconditional love, but my mind never stopped thinking. “Daddy?”

“Yes, Kil?”

“When Alluka comes into this world, will you stop paying attention to me?”  _ Like you did our pets when I was born?  _ But that part went unsaid. 

His calloused hands with palms that had enough surface area to cover my entire tummy, at the time, tenderly traced letters on my back— something we made a game out of, and since I knew how to read from the age of two, it became natural. 

The pads of his fingers trailed straight up, diagonal, then down to the very bottom of my spine. “N,” I spelled out as he continued to trace, “E…V...E...R.”

“Never,” I confirmed, smiling at the answer. 

“But Killua,” his expression grew serious and I stilled, “just remember that having a sibling changes everything. She’ll probably be an annoying twerp as a baby-“

I giggled.

“But she’ll be your sister, and… when Mommy and I aren’t here anymore, she’ll be the only family you have left: a friend to play outside with, a partner in crime to cause mischief with, but most importantly, she’ll be  _ family _ . So, promise you’ll always stick together, even when times are especially sticky.” 

Nodding, I entwined my pinky with his. 

  
  
  
  


December twenty-seventh, at the break of dawn, baby Alluka arrived. I watched through the window of the nursery and scouted the room for my sister. Even after complaining to the nurses over and over again—  _ not to mention sneaking behind the Employees only area and getting kicked out--  _ they insisted four-year-olds had too many germs and weren’t allowed in the delivery room. 

Suddenly, my heart sped as a new baby was wheeled into the room, pale skin glowing under the fluorescent lights and a tiny black curl sticking to her forehead. For hours, I didn’t take my eyes off her sleeping figure, watching with a focused intensity in my gaze. A kid next to me whined that I was hogging the only stool in the building, but I told him to shut up and that sent him crying. 

Later that afternoon, Grandpa showed me what room Mom, Dad, and newborn Alluka was in. I tiptoed through the doorway, peering behind the corner with a newfound uncertainty. 

“Come meet your new baby sister,” mom said, rocking Alluka in her arms, who bundled snuggly into plenty of soft, white blankets. 

Forcing myself to relax, I moved forward until I set eyes on my sister for the first time. Her skin was wrinkly, long eyelashes fluttered close with a smile decorating her cheeks and tiny dimples already showing. Her skin looked like mine, but her hair was the color of Moms. With reluctant fingers, I squished her cheek, pure emotion— stronger than anything I ever felt before— fluttering in my belly. I paused when she made a high-pitched noise, her head tilting to lean into the warmth of my touch. 

The dam broke, tears gushing down my face out of pure happiness. I knew this one baby would change my life completely, and every step of my future would never be without her. I knew I’d do anything to keep her from harm's way; I knew that even if it killed me, I’d do  _ anything  _ to keep her sleeping peacefully. Hiccuping, I vowed, “I will  _ always _ protect you, no matter what.” 

  
  
  
  


“Alluka, why didn’t you tell us?” I wanted to say, but the words never came out. The one person I knew the least… was my very own sister. How long did she suppress her emotions?  _ And why? _

I stared through the hospital window. It was rectangular, clean, and… just like the window that showed me my sister for the very first time. Except, tattered bandages now wrapped her head, and instead of the happiness of birth- No, that won’t happen, right?

_ Beep, beep, beep _ . The health monitor ticked at a rhymic pulse.

Until it didn’t.

I guess it gets to all of us in the end, but which one of us broke first? 

  
  
  


__

~*~

  
  
  
  


Every Friday before Christmas Break, the piano department held a winter performance. While it wasn’t Music Fest, it remained one of our biggest performances of the year. 

“Did you ever decide what you’re going to play?” Ikalgo asked, messing with his unruly, ginger hair. 

I sighed, renouncing to adjusting my tie correctly in the mirror, “Bisky mentioned I should begin the program with the _ Mendelssohn Scherzo Op. 16 _ and then play the  _ Revolutionary Etude _ right after.”

Ikalgo laughed, “Damn, that’s cruel. Not only is she making you play two pieces, but she’s assigning you to  _ start _ the entire recital with a lightning-fast piece on a Steinway that doesn’t repeat.”

I grimaced, “Tell me about it. If I mess it up, it’s twenty-five percent of my semester average. I’m playing one piece no one on the face of the planet has heard before and one that’s overplayed. What are you playing?”

“I’m ending the program.”

“Of course you are,” I rolled my eyes with a smile, “I bet it’s something unimaginably hard.”

“Eh, I’m playing the Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No.2, Moderato.”

“Eh,” I repeated, mocking his voice. 

“Eh.”

I flicked Ikalgo on his dumb, freckly nose to which he ruffled my hair in revenge. “Ikalgo!” I protested. “Now I have to tame it all over again.” I  _ once again _ struggled to yank a comb through my  _ now-tangled _ hair.  _ Annoying...stupid...FloOF! _

__ “So... how’s your boyfriend?”

Heat raced to my cheeks, “What-”

Ikalgo hurled over with a bellowing laugh, “I was kidding. Your...your face!”

I watched in indignation as he continuously laughed, “ha, ha, very funny.” I averted my focus to the mirror in front of me. 

He suddenly went still, “Wait, do you have a boyfriend?”

“I don’t,” I argued defensively. 

“How could you not tell me this?”

Proclaiming weakly, “I like girls.”

Ikalgo sighed, “Killua, you never looked  _ twice _ at girls. There’s nothing to hide. This entire school is gay, anyway. Guys come out as straight.”

I laughed because it was true. The only semi-straight department in the entire school was Band, and that made sense. You had the dancers with their pliant tights that revealed a  _ distinct _ outline of the size of their you _ -know-what _ ; it was rather distracting during plays.  _ And it didn’t help hearing other guys speak of it, either.  _ Ah, then there was the brazen theater boys--you knew who bottomed in that relationship. I could go on: vocalists, artists, writer—- all gay, yet for some reason, everyone,  _ besides Ikalgo _ , assumed I was straight.

_ Sorry, everyone! I’m gay, too _ .

I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would’ve taken to decide that if it weren’t for Gon Freecss and his stupid attractive face. 

“Fine, stupid. I’m dating a dude.”

Ikalgo inched closer, “Oooh, that’s where you got the ring from!”

“Dammit,” I scrambled to cover his mouth, “not... so  _ loud,” _ seething a whisper. 

He licked my palm to wiggle free. 

I shrieked, “Ew, gross, gross!” wiping all of his icky saliva on his expensive, black suit. Formal wear was admittedly a turn on. Gon in a black tux invaded my cogitation. His spiky, black hair and dark, amber eyes, the curve of Gon’s nose I wanted to trace absentmindedly; I craved to slowly slip my fingers under the hem of his tank top,  _ feeling _ his abdomen as it rolled beneath the pads of my fingers with each breath. And his scent,  _ gods  _ the  _ smell _ of Gon’s cologne always had arousal blossom like spring roses. 

_ Stupid, get a hold of yourself. _

Suddenly, Ikalgo went silent. His gaze lingered on mine, dark, brown eyes— a shade darker than Gon’s, and minus the golden tint— wavering. Nonetheless, the emotion’s evident, and I tensed. It’s the way Gon looked at me back at camp, when we danced on the balcony, and when he kissed me. I frowned.  _ No, Ikalgo doesn’t- _

__ “Killua…” Ikalgo shuffled nervously. 

_ Please, don’t say it. _

__ I peered down, my heart dropping. 

Silence.

The school intercom sounded, “We welcome everyone to see our pianists perform in five minutes in the recital hall! You don’t want to miss out on talent! Thank you all for coming.”

“I guess it’s time.” He whispered.

“Yeah, good luck,” I tried my best to give a smile, yet I felt that I was consistently hurting Ikalgo each moment we spent together. Lunch, practicing, recitals, walking home— _all of it, together._ I wondered how I would’ve felt if Gon didn’t reciprocate my feelings. Even though I hid them throughout all of summer camp, I always sensed that Gon felt the same way, even if my insecurities masked it. But we all have things we have to face alone. At least, I knew I did. 

Ikalgo and I went our separate ways. 

  
  
  
  


_ Squish, squish, squish _ . 

“Killua, my god, you’re _ murdering  _ that handwarmer,” retorted Zushi.

I continued to squish it, shivering backstage from nerves, excitement, and the damn temperature itself. They should make it illegal for schools to have the air conditioner set anything below sixty-five.

No use. My hands were shaking enough for anyone to notice within a two-mile radius. 

Zushi pat my shoulder, “Seriously though, you’re going to want to stop shaking before you play a piece as fast as yours.”

_ Not helping, Zushi!  _ “I know,” I said behind gritted, chattering teeth. 

It’s pitch black backstage. Long and narrow, just enough space to not feel claustrophobic. An occasional spiderweb occupied the corners, and leathery, grey chairs lined the back wall. I apprehensively tapped my foot on the carpeted floor.  _ Tap, tap, tap. Squish, squish, squish.  _ When did I even develop stage fright? Well, it was different from stage fright. I played in front of others countless times before, but playing for others isn’t what frightened me. It was playing for Ms. Krueger— it was my self-worth relying on her praise because she’s the only one who had high expectations for me. Maybe, I wanted to prove to my suffering ego that I was finally capable of attending this school and being amongst ‘talented’ individuals. 

Applause erupted from the opposite side of the wall. 

_ Ah, great. _

I chucked the hand warmer across the room, quickly apologizing when it landed on a student’s head and rushed on stage.

Blinding light had me instinctively squint my eyes, people,  _ hundreds _ of people applauded. And though I have little to no explanation, I felt happy— like I belonged with my fingers dusting the keys and my feet brushing the sustain pedal under the spotlight. My heart raced, but I enjoyed the thrill. Letting my eyes fall shut, I began, nimble fingers snapping at the repeated notes and somehow not cramping. Octaves in contrary motion, octaves in a chromatic scale, octaves electrifying the base; how perfectly they fit in my hands.

I remembered Gon’s face whilst playing, his heartwarming smile of pure, honest joy. His silky hair, caressed by moonlight, shadowing everything but his sparkling eyes. I watched as he played octaves, suppressing the urge to put my hand on his, feeling his playing with my very own fingers.

To do something that makes you happy— just maybe, I found that something.

I finished the  _ Revolutionary Etude _ with a bite. Applause erupted from the audience, and for the first time, I genuinely smiled in turn. Once again backstage, Ikalgo leaned against the wall, a smirk across his face, “You finally found your voice.”

Gon voice, asking, “ _ sing for me _ ,” surfaced my thoughts.

“Congrats! You did amazing out there,” said Zushi.

I felt all jittery inside, a constant-smile plastering my face. And that’s how the rest of the performance went: me finally feeling like I belonged— like I was equal to everyone around me— like I wasn’t a burden. I could play duets! I could eat lunch like the rest of the pianists! Endless possibilities that seemed dream-like raced through my mind. A new hope blossomed in me, one I wouldn’t mind believing in. Why? Because I was happy.

Parents lined up to give their kids bouquets: lilies, tulips, orchids, roses— petals flying and filling the room with a sweet aroma, blessing my nostrils. Childlike playfulness washed over me, reminding me of summer camp two years ago, reminding me of the little paradise I discovered alongside Gon. 

We all migrated to the fifth floor to receive constructive criticism from Bisky. Lining in a circular formation, I leaned back and forth, heels to toe, waiting for my turn. 

“Killua Zoldyck,” Ms. Krueger began.

_ Tell me I did well. I felt like I did well. Did I do well? _

She stared at me— an unapproachable look— a look I never wanted to see again. She threw the sheet music down with a furious slam. I winced, my heart, self-esteem, and everything in-between shattering into millions and millions of pieces, yet I didn’t even bother to try and piece it back together. Her stare gave away the answer, but the words stung. Because despite her being strict, she never gave me such a hateful look. 

“ _ Never _ play like that again.”

  
  
  
  


I felt too many emotions all at once. I stared at my piano in hatred, yearning to hammer it, burn it, stomp on it as it stomped on me. My father’s house had an upright that sounded everything like a concert grand. It’s glossy, back paint reflected the solitary lamp beaming in the background, and my face, a face with an expression I grew to loathe. Sheet music littered the floor, crumbling and tearing music of all different eras: Baroque, Classical, Romantic, Modern— all of it.

But I don’t remember why I didn’t feel any resentment towards the people who made me despise myself. At the time, that didn’t matter because the only thing that mattered was I ruined everything that had the potential to make me happy because of some mistake or fault in my personality. I felt like a naive child, understanding nothing until I’m directly told, and blaming myself when there was no such answer.  _ What am I doing wrong? What am I doing wrong?  _ I crouched on my knees, covering my ears, and gripping my tangled hair, attempting, but failing, to silence the crippling voices inside me. 

Beneath my foot, a particular book of sheet music caught my eye.  _ The Chopin Ballade _ . With shaky fingers, I picked it up, flipping to the first page. It’s a piece said to reflect Chopin’s loneliness throughout the war. His broken self-esteem destroyed him, and his music reflected just that. It’s sad, really. His life ended before he found that sense of security that his music-  _ or that he was worth composers’ recognition. _

I sauntered to the piano bench, reluctantly lifting the lid to reveal ivory keys. Absentmindedly, I set the sheet music on the rack. I sat silently, analyzing the piece’s structure. 

It began with a simple introduction, an introduction that everyone has, an introduction into the world like an infant opening its eyes for the first time. Immediately, within the true beginning, resonates a melancholy melody, emphasized by the unchanging singular note in the left hand and accompanied by a slow, voiced melody by the pinkies of the right hand— gently, like the weakened beats of his slowing heart. 

Placing my fingers on the keys with a swift glance at the key signature, I started playing.

Despite unfairly disliking those who advanced in life through connections and natural talent alone— I was one of them. I enjoyed the piano, but I never took the time to practice, and sight-reading just seemed  _ extra.  _ Why count the rhythms when you can hear them? Relative pitch is what my teachers called it, nothing as extraordinary as perfect pitch, but it sure guided me down the path of laziness. 

I was accepted into the High School for the Performing and Visual Arts by practicing no more than thirty minutes  _ a week.  _ Ignorant at the time, it boosted my confidence to unspeakable levels. But getting into the school is one level, skip to the last level and you’re talking about  _ thriving _ amongst kids who dedicated their lives to the instrument. You had the kids that were decent and worked their asses off, you had the kids who were lazy and relied on talent alone, and  _ then, _ there were the kids who had both talent  _ and  _ determination— the truly frightening pair. 

It’s entering a whole new world of competition— like winning a school track meet versus a national marathon. Contestants from  _ The Voice,  _ foreign exchange students who played in international orchestras, and even students who won the title: best in North America. 

“Don’t compare yourself so much,” Mom will always say, but how can I not? It’s  _ nature _ to observe your surroundings. How do you find worth in yourself when  _ everyone  _ looks down on you? 

Maybe it’s possible, but not easy. 

Practicing thirty minutes a week turned into six hours a day. 

_ The Chopin Ballade in g minor _ . Ikalgo would laugh at me for how overplayed it is, but pieces are overplayed for a reason:  _ they’re better. _ I sight-read through the first three pages at a glacial tempo, trying to tell myself I improved, yet my mind couldn’t help but flashback to the student who sight-read  _ The Carmen Fantasy  _ on stage. 

I shrugged to myself. I’ll never play this in front of anyone, so I might as well make it my own. A twinge of regret twisted my stomach into a wrenching knot.  _ If only… if only I skipped those few stages of childhood and practiced or studied or done something useful to keep the feeling of hopelessness away.  _

__ But I always stayed too committed and to the wrong things… the things that brought suffering. 

I stopped playing upon a sudden realization. 

I remained to stare at nothing in particular, focused on my thoughts. Why do I even have to think?  _ Why _ can’t I just be normal and think: oh, what football team is going to make it to the Superbowl in January— like a normal boy?

‘ _ Those who are smart think ahead.’ _

__ While I considered myself far from intelligent, I knew one thing for certain: my mentality, my surroundings, this world—  _ everything  _ is a  _ prison.  _

  
  
  


_ ~*~  _

  
  


“Gon, why do you never talk about your family?” I asked. We ambled side-by-side, both of us watching our feet as we kicked pebbles on the rocky pathway leading to the clubhouse. My face reddened when Gon’s mid-thigh brushed against mine from time to time, and I only remember focusing my gaze on his scuffed green boots. 

Green. It became my favorite color. 

He sighed, “Is there anything you want to know?”

“Hmm, I guess not because there’s no need.” _ At least, for now _ .

Gon halted, and I slowed to a stop, looking at him curiously, “Is something wrong?”

A grin appeared, tugging the right side of his lips.

My eyes narrowed, “what’re you thinking about, creep...?”

He looked at me, intentions unclear. I backed away slowly as he advanced forward. 

“Gon, you’re being  _ extra _ weird.”

Suddenly, he lunged at me, curling an arm around my waist and lifting me off the ground. “Gon, what the hell are you doing?!” I kicked with flailing limbs, biting my lip when my face buried in his tank top. He sped to a sprint, yet I couldn’t see where he’s taking me. And before I knew it, freezing lake water surrounded me. My feet struggled to find the mud ground. Finally successful, my feet sank into the flooring and I pushed to the surface, gasping for air. “What was that for?!”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stared with widened eyes, mouth slightly agape. 

Was something wrong? Was there something on my face?

“Gon?” I tilted my head, “You’re acting weird tonight.”

He waded closer, wrinkling black waters shining under the bold moonlight. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered-- a finger skimming across my damp cheeks.

I splashed him, water slashing his dopey expression right off of his face. “Next time you’ll know better than to be creepy, moron.”

That confrontation escalated to a water fight, Gon and I walking back to Base with dripping hair and soggy clothing. 

I didn’t know why he was acting weird that night. We never knew what each other was thinking. We understood feelings, and at the time, that was far from enough. 

Well, for a time.

  
  


Suicide. There aren’t justifying justifications, so I didn’t know how to feel about it. It crossed my mind a few times, but I’m sure it crosses everyone’s mind, at least once, but that’s different from being _ suicidal _ \-- the act of constantly resorting to killing yourself in troublesome situations.  _ I didn’t understand them. _

But it became too much for Gon. He began calling more and more, reasons for it dwindling and dwindling. 

It was Christmas Eve, the one time of the year where my family all comes together with little dispute. Father horsed around with my sister, my mom cooked in the kitchen, and I would do everything in-between. We weren’t religious, so the  _ meaning _ of the holiday wasn’t anything more than a wholesome gathering. I liked it better that way.

It was the first realization of the flaws in my relationship with Gon. 

‘I’m going to do it,” Gon says over the phone. 

“No, please,” I begged. It was torture, someone you love the most threatening to end their own life at arbitrary moments. What if it happened tomorrow? What if I miss a phone call?  _ What if it happens right now? _

‘I’m lonely,’ he’ll say.

It’s unintentionally manipulating, selfish. 

_ ‘You’re the one she loved the most.’ _

_ ‘I want to kill myself.‘ _

_ ‘How could I raise such stupid children.’ _

_ ‘Never play like that again.’ _

_ ‘I want… to end it all, leave everything behind.’ _

And then, I lost it. Tears clouded my vision, threatening to fall, “am I not enough?!” I yelled. My voice croaked, “you’ll… you’ll be leaving me behind.” How pathetic I sounded. I know some of you will tell me: that’s not the kind of thing you say to someone about to kill themself, but I’m not some robot, I’m not some psychologist; I’m a  _ child--  _ helpless, naive, and blaming everything on myself. 

Suddenly, Gon hung up. 

I stared at the contacts screen in disbelief, water gushing down my face. I tapped the call icon.  _ No, no, no. I’m sorry. Please…answer! _

He never answered.

It’s my fault. 

My voice broke. I wailed, falling to my knees and clenching my heart. A puddle of tears formed rapidly beneath my crouched figure. Listening to Gon’s voice mail on repeat, I cried and cried and cried.  _ I’m so stupid. It’s all my fault. _

__ I flinched as my bedroom door creaked open, a sliver of light fighting the encroaching darkness.

“Big Brother… what’s wrong?” Alluka asks timidly.

“He- It’s my fault. It’s...” I couldn’t breathe. My throat clenched shut. A high-pitched noise escaped-- the sound of someone’s life coming to an end, the sound of someone’s entire purpose shattering within the hands of self-destruction;  _ the sound of loss. _

Mom slammed the door open, “Kil, what’s wrong?!”

‘ _ Never tell anyone...please _ ,’ I remember Gon saying with pleading eyes. 

It spilled from me-- my words-- because it’s all meaningless now. ‘Gon. He’s going to-,” I choked, breaking into a coughing fit. Mom rubbed circles on my back until I regained my voice, “he’s going to kill himself, and It’s my fault!”

“He won’t do something like that,’ she says, and I stare at her in disbelief. “Gon will be okay. He should’ve never put a burden like that on your shoulders.”

_ But you don’t know if he’ll be okay, and I may never know _ . 

For the rest of the night, I didn’t move from my curled up position on the carpet. I hardly blinked as tears ran dry, my body twitching uncontrollably on occasion. My mind was blank, and so were my emotions. That’s what I wished for, right? Not feeling anything--  _ not thinking?  _ No, it hurt badly. At that time, I was no more than a lifeless doll, waiting for something to change-- something good. 

A smile curled on my lips, “wait, this is no different from every other situation,” I mumbled from myself. An incomprehensible of happiness washed over me, “This is no different! It’s a pattern. I’ll see Gon in a few weeks and everything will be okay! It’ll be another little haven…”

But the hope disappeared as fast as it came.

“That won’t happen… because this time, it’s my fault.”

_ Gon _ . 

Water, once again, streamed freely down my cheeks. 

“I want to marry you someday,” Gon announced against my lips.

We were at the park, under the swaying trees and warmth of the welcoming sun. 

I smiled, “Yeah?” Another kiss.

“Yeah,” Gon sighed. He put his ear to my chest, listening to my, rather fast, heartbeat, and fingers stroked his hair soothingly. “As-” I started, cutting myself off to rethink my words.

“Hmm?’

Taking a deep breath, I shifted in my seat, finally answering after a hushed moment, “as long as you’re here… Alive and happy. That’s all I want.”

Silence.

“... Yeah,’ he whispers, but I knew he couldn’t promise me, so I didn’t ask.  _ I didn’t want to know the answer. _

Was his heart still beating? Was his skin still warm, comforting to touch? Does he still have the glint in his eyes? Is it hopeless… is it inevitable?”

I wouldn’t find out until three days later. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frankly, I didn’t like this chapter all so much. But I guess it’s better than the other times I rewrote it. 
> 
> Thank you for all your support, and happy 2021!


	8. And A Future to Retouch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES TO SAVE CONFUSION BEFORE READING THIS CHAPTER! As you have probably already noticed, there are some canon differences. Because this relates to a true story, I needed this to be the case, sorry. Here are the differences: I changed Graham's name to Bizeff (because I just realized that's a perfect character for Graham to correspond within hxh), Illumi is Killua's uncle (because in this story, the only sibling Killua has is his younger sister, Alluka), and Kalluto is Killua's cousin and a girl. I didn't make this change to change the important themes of gender within hxh, but I did it for the sake of this story only-- in no means do I not support the excellent ways Togashi incorporated gender and sexuality into his work. Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bell rock…”

Music blared from the stereo as my entire family gathered around the Christmas tree, holding a toast to everything they’re thankful for with a clank of crystalline wine glasses. Mother laughed and passed around presents while Alluka tore the wrapping paper to shreds in whimsical delight.

_ It’s all wrong,  _ I thought. 

I absentmindedly checked my phone for any messages from Gon, scrolling through hundreds of my texts-- all with zero response. Suddenly, the phone slipped out of my grasp, and Mom snatched it, “you don’t need this on Christmas.”

I stared at her like a stranger had just stolen a possession of mine; a stranger she was. She knew about Gon, but she didn’t care. It instantly reminded me of the three individuals who turned their backs towards my call for help. The situation was an inconvenience to them, such as Gon was an inconvenience to Christmas for my mother.

They’re all the same… even my family--  _ especially  _ my family.

Sighing, I wandered to the piano. My left hand struck a low octave C, resonating the beginning of the _ Chopin Ballade in g minor _ . I hummed along mindlessly as my pinkies latched to the melody, caressing the keys with tender touches. 

_ ‘I want to be a songwriter with you by my side.’ _

__ My lips quivered. 

Chopin: the language of loneliness, from the light presses of the sustain pedal to the resonating melody accompanied by sub-voices of harmony.

Suddenly, the bench creaked. I side-glanced to see my father listening with his head tilted back and eyes closed in content. When I stopped playing, he stared at me with a warm smile— oh-so-welcoming. “That song is beautiful,” he said. 

My voice wavered, “Y-yeah, I remember you mentioning that during the last recital.”

He hums, “it’s like an entire movie within a single song. A story. It goes from a sad, melancholy beginning, to a small moment of paradise with tragedy in between.” 

My mouth fell open slightly. Father never cared about music— let alone  _ piano _ . It’s strangely comforting knowing we had the same mindset. 

There’s a moment of silence. I simply stare at the keys, feeling lost. 

“I’m sorry for what happened to your friend.” 

I bit my lip, tears threatening to fall, but I wouldn’t cry in front of Father. 

“I- I had a best friend who committed suicide. We grew up together; I regret not doing something sooner. He hinted towards killing himself, but… I never imagined he’d actually do it.” My eyes widen when I hear his voice crack. Father is… crying? 

With caring touches, he threaded large fingers through my hair, patting my head as he did when I was young. “The song, play it again, please.” 

So I did. Over and over again. 

For those who are dying from cancer, it’s common for them to have that one ‘good day.’ The final one. My dad wasn’t dying of cancer, but we considered that Christmas to be the last ‘good day.’ 

The final one. 

  
  


  
  


The day after Christmas, we rotated to live at my father’s house for a week since my mother wanted us to be at her house during school. I lugged my laptop bag on one shoulder and Alluka’s belongings on the other. She skipped ahead, poking at a flower she deemed beautiful here and there. Dandelions— those were her favorite. 

Our uncle, aunt, and my only first cousin, Kalluto, had just moved a few units down. Alluka and Kalluto would often walk back and forth, mingling, raising havoc, and everything else bored kids would do. My aunt and uncle wanted nothing to do with Kalluto. They always had to make it evident that they did  _ not _ want kids, so Kalluto was shipped around from house to house day after day. Mother’s close to Kalluto and she figured the reason our family moved close to my Father was so Kalluto would spend less time at her parents’ house and spend time at Father’s instead. But for some reason, the entire family always wanted to spend time with me—  _ even my aunt and uncle. _ I flashed back to Alluka crying her insecurities away— crying from feeling abandoned. Did Kalluto feel that way, too? 

Now that I think about it, we never had a strong relationship. All the memories I have of Kalluto are simple waves and passing by, nothing more. In that way, I was unapproachable. 

I fidgeted with the house key and turned the knob. Suddenly, an awful, rotten stench flooded my nostrils, tugging a shudder out of me. I put my palm up, “stay back,” I ordered the two girls. 

Kalluto listened immediately, her figure stiffening and taking a large step backward. Alluka, a bit more protestant, rolled her eyes and skipped away to probably pick some more dandelions. 

With reluctant steps, I entered the familiar territory of Father’s living room, which was also a bedroom(?) Despite having an entire room to himself upstairs, he replaced the spot for a couch with his bed. 

Around six empty beer cans tipped over like fallen dominos, and cigarette buds trashed the floor.  _ Huh. Nothing too bad _ . 

So I slid the glass door open, cringing as the metal screeched from friction. No one in the garden: clear. Plants that seemed to come and go, because of Father’s lack of nourishment, swayed as a sudden gust of breeze slammed the garage’s screen door wide open. 

And there stood a young man. 

He wore a black hoodie, his clothing was ragged, and unkempt blonde hair stuck out in all the wrong directions. I was frozen in shock as I saw the man shuffle through my father’s toolbox— scavenging, it seems—  _ for something valuable.  _

“Get out,” I finally say. 

The man jumps in surprise, immediately whipping around with a sharp screwdriver in his right hand. Foggy blue eyes traced mine, his pupils contracted. The expression he wore reminded me of a cornered animal, and I immediately knew, without a doubt, that his thoughts were unstable, unreliable;  _ unpredictable. _

I lowered my gaze, deciding to hold my place. Father is ignorant, naive. He’s rich and drives an expensive viper, somehow thinking everyone that wants to ride home with him is genuinely interested in his personality like some twisted version of dependence. And where does that mentality lead him? To this very scene before me. 

Worse of all, Alluka gets home from school earlier than me. Her getting off the school bus would mean there’s a chance she’d walk in, vulnerable to people like  _ him _ . 

_ Not a chance.  _

__ “What're you doing here?” I ask, trying to feign being generally inquisitive rather than suspicion. 

“I-I was just on my way out,” the man proclaims, and I could practically see sweat forming on his sickly forehead as my gaze tracked his every move. 

I clear my throat, “excuse me, but I believe that belongs to my father.” I pointed at the Phillips screwdriver in the stranger’s right hand. 

“Right! Of course!” He says a tad too quickly. Even his movements were frantic, his feet hastily shuffling to the toolbox to return the screwdriver. I watched, eyes boring into his back and tracing his every move as the man grabbed his backpack and left through the front door without a single word. 

“They’re all the same,” I mumbled to myself. My eyes glanced to the stairway. This is the part I dreaded the most: seeing the disastrous state of my room, which seemed to change  _ quite creatively  _ every time I stepped foot inside. 

When I opened my bedroom door, the sight greatly disturbed me. Alluka’s dirty laundry basket was tipped over, all of her undergarments littering the wooden floor. The bedsheets, clean and made before I left, barely clung to the mattress with the blankets piling into a fabric pool on the ground. Water bottles, water bottles, water bottles were everywhere. I kicked one angrily and smashed another, “selfish bastard!”

A bedroom,  _ my bedroom,  _ was the one place I was supposed to feel safe in, yet with each and every visit, that privacy was invaded, promising a twisted sight before me. 

Then, I entered the bathroom. Bile threatened to climb my esophagus. Cherry ice-cream, red as blood, smeared all over the mirror and splashed in a trail to the toilet on the white, tile floor. Brown pubic hair— no one in our family had that hair color— stuck to the bathtub, counters, and toilet. It was a crime scene of disgust, but it was a solo mission for me and me alone. 

I told uncle Illumi to watch Alluka and Kalluto, to which he replied, “is Silva unable to?”

But I simply responded with an icy-glare, sharp enough to cut steel, “you know the answer.”

I got to work immediately, cleaning until it was a room I could once again live in with Alluka. Well, at least until the next visit. 

  
  
  
  
  


The moment Mother returned my phone, I checked for any message notifications. None. My heart dropped, despite common sense telling me I wouldn’t have received any other answer, anyway. 

“Big brother, wanna play Phasmophobia?” She held her gaming headphones in one hand, crystal blue eyes bright with a playful innocence.

I smiled, turning my phone on silent and placing it on my piano, “sure.” 

Father interrupted us, “sorry, kids, but Bizeff and I need to be working on The Deal. Once we’re trillionaires, you’ll have as much time as you want for video games.” He gently shoved Alluka aside and opened up saved tabs on his internet browser. Various mansions in the area popped up, and the sight made me bilious. “The Princess says The Deal is authentic.” 

_ Says Bizeff— the guy who’s been ripped off by so many Tinder girls that he’s now homeless and mooching off of my father. _

“Did you sign a contract?” I asked, glowering. 

Instantaneously, with the most hateful gaze I’ve ever seen come from my father, he glared at me, yellowing teeth grinding and clenched fists making his knuckles turn white from friction. “Do you not  _ trust _ me?”

The sudden spike of anger stimulated my fight or flight response, and memories of me in the snow, getting beat kick after kick invaded every aspect of my consciousness. 

It was the first of my complete submission to my father. First of many. 

“I trust you, Father,” I said, looking him directly in the eye no matter how much I wanted to stare at the ground. It was also one of the first times I lied to my father. 

First of many. 

  
  


  
  


“Killua, can you promise not to tell anyone?” 

“Gon-“

“Please!” He begged over the phone, “I never said anything to anyone about that night on the bridge.”

I flinched, “I wasn’t,” my voice cracked, “I wasn’t going to actually jump.” There was a small silence— silence if you don’t include the small hiccups coming from the phone’s speaker. “But I won’t tell anyone,” I promised. 

_ ‘I won’t tell anyone.’ _

I jolted awake in a gasp. My heart pounded against my ribcage relentlessly, and a shaky hand carefully dabbed the dry tears that stained my cheeks.  _ Another nightmare _ .

I glanced next to me to find Alluka sleeping peacefully with a stuffed animal hugging her chest. A small smile graced my lips when I used my finger to wipe away a bit of drool escaping the corner of Alluka's mouth.

Sighing, I slid the clean bedsheets off of my legs. Whenever waking up in the middle of the night at Father’s house, I’d go downstairs to play on the electric keyboard with my headphones in. Putting my hands in my short’s pockets after gently closing the door behind me, careful not to wake Alluka, I slinked the halls. 

That’s when I came across Bizeff’s bedroom. 

In my peripheral vision, I saw a picture of Alluka as the desktop background of his computer. A gasp caught in my throat; I hid behind the corner of the wall as fast as possibly could. 

_ Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.  _ My heart pounded, my mind screamed, and my limbs felt weak, powerless.  _ No, I could’ve just seen it wrong. It could be my eyes playing awful tricks on me.  _

I swallowed hard, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, peering my head around the corner once more. Bizeff stuck his hand in a bag of greasy potato chips while he scrolled through Venezuelan girls on Tinder, but then, my eyes caught his desktop background once more. It was Alluka getting thrown up in the air by Father and waving her arms playfully like she was a bird, but the picture zoomed in on something nauseating. 

It focused under Alluka’s dress, her baby pink underwear showing right between her legs. 

As fast as I could, I ran to the bedroom Alluka and I shared, shutting the door. Frantic fingers twisted the lock, but suddenly, I remembered. I remembered Father’s threatening gaze, a gaze that told me  _ ‘don’t disobey me or something bad will happen to your mother.’ _

_ “Never lock this door!”  _ He threatened, the memory of his outburst fresh in my mind.

So I unlocked the door once more. 

My back slid down the wall, tears gushing down my face with no sign of stopping.  _ I can’t lock the door. I can’t lock the door. Bizeff is only a few steps away, but I’m not allowed to lock the door!  _

It was  _ then _ I truly realized, Father’s house is too dangerous to live in. 

~*~

  
  


I remember drifting between slumber and consciousness— the fine line between the two never quite clear— under silken blankets with my phone next to me. Listening to Gon playing the piano was by far one of my favorite things to do in the world. He always played this one song by Debussy,  _ Arabesque No.1.  _

I have one particular memory, the memory of his playing in the background as I stared at a painting in my room of a forest with a sleeping river that remained undisturbed by any external forces. The colors, all the bright colors created from the gentle presses on the keys, came to life. It’d make me think of a future I never knew I was capable of, a future I never imagined I’d deserve, and for the first time, I truly wanted something all for myself— it was a goal I’d sacrifice  _ anything _ to fulfill. 

It was a dream, a dream imbued with optimism. I imagined living in a house with Gon— all other conflicts existing within the outside world non-problematic. I was sitting on a comfy couch in a living room, the moonlight and the starry sky beaming through large windows that were covered with transparent, white curtains, and Gon played Arabesque on a mirror-like Steinway identical to the piano we played at Summer Camp. A small smile appeared on my face; my insides filled with warmth. It was the first dream I could actually see coming true. 

But in the end, it was merely a dream. 

  
  
  


Three days have passed since Christmas Eve. I was at Mom’s house, curled in my blankets and scrolling through all of my text message histories with Gon. My fingers grazed the ring around my fourth finger, my thumb caressing the crushed opal. 

A thought crossed my mind, something I wished to never have to think about ever again.  _ If Gon is truly gone, would it be considered self-destructive to continue wearing this ring? _

I stopped all movement. Hesitant fingers carefully slid the ring off, but then I paused once more, shaking my head and sliding it back down my finger.  _ I can’t do it _ .  _ I can’t let go of him.  _

Suddenly, I received a call from Gon, and for a moment of disbelief, I stared at my home screen incredulously.  _ Am I hallucinating?  _

_ Gon. _

Not waiting another moment, I jolted up and swiped to answer. “Gon-!”

_ “You told someone. You told your mother and she called my father!” _

All words died on my tongue, confusion sprouting, but that quickly morphed into sheer anger. And my voice didn’t mask any of it, “for  _ three _ days, I wondered if you were  _ alive _ . What were you thinking about, huh?” It took everything in me to refrain from screaming, “for that time, I didn’t know if I lost you forever. I didn’t know if _ I  _ was responsible. I-,” my voice cracked. 

There's silence, and I wait patiently.

Finally, he responds,  _ “Sorry, my aunt came in, could you repeat that?” _

My heart dropped to my stomach, “I was just worried. I’m… glad you’re okay.”

_ “Well, now my father knows and it’s only a matter of time before the news spreads to my Aunt.” _

__ “Yeah… I’m sorry.”

_ “It’s okay. Just… don’t do that again.” _

I winced, too many emotions welling up inside me. Why,  _ why  _ did this confrontation remind me of my Father? I  _ knew _ it was wrong of Gon, but when did I lose the courage to fight back? 

It doesn’t matter, I decided. I should be grateful. 

_ It’s okay because the good outweighs the bad _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short, but that's only because it felt wrong to infuse this with the happiness of the next chapter. (Maybe there will be another date mwahahah) Sorry for the long wait in-between. I've been struggling with hypersomnia again... so you really don't have much time in the day when you're moving houses, practicing piano, doing school, AND SLEEPING 15 HOURS. Ugh, I hate sleep, sometimes!
> 
> My dumbass accidentally sent the link to my bf, which was a bomb of humiliation. :'3 He liked the story ig, but I STG IF YOU'RE READING THIS I WILL SHANK U. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
> 
> Insta: https://www.instagram.com/that_great_snail/  
> Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/That_gReat_Snail

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter! I’m kind of using writing this as a coping mechanism for troubling circumstances. (As I mentioned in the summary, this is basically my life story in another character’s POV)
> 
> Please, comment your thoughts. I can’t believe all the support I received with other books and I hope this lives up to the same expectations <3


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